The  Perils  of  Josephine 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELA 


The 
Perils  of  Josephine 


BY 

LORD  ERNEST  HAMILTON 

AUTHOR   OF 

'THE  OUTLAWS  or  THE  MAFCHES,"  "THE  MAWKIN  OF  THE  FLOW" 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  &  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCXCIX 


COPYRIGHT     1899    BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  DAYS  OF  AULD  LANG  SYNE       ...      I 

II.  I  ENTER  THE  GOLDEN  GATES    .     i 

III.  INVERSNAID   .      »    v  .      .      »- ; 

IV.  THE    OLD    MANOR    HOUSE      .        •_ '   .     \        .  . 

V.  FATHER    BOYLE          v,  .,  .  ... 

VI.  CONCERNING    THE    APPOINTMENT    OF    A    STOKER 

VII.  MRS.     BEDDINGTON    GROWS    INTERESTING 

VIII.  AN    EXPLOSION,    A    JUSTIFICATION,    AND    A    PRAYER       . 

IX.  A    SHOOTING    PARTY  ..... 

X.  STOKER    AND    HAMADRYAD    .  .  . 

XI.  MORE    EXPLOSIONS       .  .  .  *  . 

XII.  I    HAVE    A    BIRTHDAY  .  .  .   i 

XIII.  ANOTHER      SHOOTING     PARTY,     A     SURPRISE,     AND     A 

PUZZLE       ..,  .        _..  .  ...  .  .        113 

XIV.  A    NIGHTMARE  .  .  .  .  .  .121 

XV.  A    LECTURE    FROM    AUNT    HARRIET  '.  .  .130 

XVI.  A    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT  *  .  .  .  .        144 

XVII.  AN    AFTERNOON    RIDE  .-  .         '.-  .      •        .  .        154 

XVIII.  MYSTERY    AND    SUSPICION     .  .  .  '.  .        172 

XIX.  MORE    MYSTERY  .  .  ..  ..  .  .        19! 

XX.  FLICKERS    ON    THE    RAFTERS  ....        2O2 

XXI.  AN    EXODUS    FROM    SELWORTH          .  .  .  .        2OJ 

XXII.  MRS.    BEDDINGTON    SPEAKS  .  .  .  .       22O 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XXIII.  THE    END    OF    THE    OLD    MANOR    HOUSE  .                      2J I 

XXIV.  FROM    ELMHURST    TO    ASHBY            .  .              .              •       2Sl 
XXV.  A    DEEP  LAID    PLOT     .             .              .              .              .                      26 1 

XXVI.  A    DARING    BURGLARY              .....        269 

XXVII.  MY    HEADACHE,    AND    WHAT    CAME    OF    IT            .              .        28 1 

xxvni.  SUSAN  CROSSLEY'S  CONFESSION     ....      288 

XXIX.  WHAT    CAME    OF    THE    CONFESSION              .              .              .316 

XXX.  UNCLE    GUY    MAKES    A    MOVE           .              .              .             .324 

XXXI.  THE    DEFINITION    OF    A    NAME          .              .             .             .328 


THE  PERILS  OF  JOSEPHINE 


CHAPTER    I 

THE  DAYS  OF  AULD  LANG  SYNE 

HPHREE  dull  maids  sat  in  a  dull  room,  in  the  dull, 
*•  dull  town  of  Chelmsford.  Two  of  these  maids 
were  old,  and  one  young.  For  ten  long  grey  years  had 
these  three  lived  together  in  that  same  little  house,  and 
during  all  these  years  there  had  happened  nothing — ab- 
solutely nothing — that  would  in  the  very  least  degree 
repay  recording.  Twice  in  every  week  the  coaches  to 
and  from  London  would  rattle  past  the  windows  with  a 
great  to-do,  the  guard  tooting  on  his  long  polished  horn, 
and  the  driver  cutting  strange  patterns  in  the  air  with  his 
whip.  And  twice  in  every  day,  with  the  first  clatter  of 
hoofs  on  the  bald  cobbles,  would  the  three  of  us  rush  to 
the  window  and  flatten  our  noses  against  the  glass,  and 
this  without  fail  and  with  a  zest  that  never  waned.  Now 
and  again  the  great  coach  would  race  past  with  double 
clatter  and  double  speed ;  and  when  that  was  so,  it  was  as 
sure  as  anything  could  be  that  it  was  not  the  red-faced 
driver  that  was  on  the  box,  but  some  dandy  buck,  with 
broad-brimmed  beaver,  and  big  white  buttons  staring 
from  his  coat  like  eyes.  Very  fine  and  elegant  were 
some  of  these  young  men,  and  one  there  was  one  day 
that,  seeing  my  face  pressed  against  the  glass,  took  off 


2  THE   PERILS   OF  JOSEPHINE 

his  hat  and  bowed  to  me  very  low  and  gracefully,  at 
which  my  two  dear  aunts,  as  with  one  accord,  must 
needs  lift  up  their  hands  and  eyes  in  a  very  agony  of 
horror.  Dear,  sweet  souls!  It  was  many  a  year  before 
that  young  man's  bow  was  wiped  from  their  simple 
memories.  It  may  be,  it  was  more  than  a  day  before  it 
was  wiped  from  mine;  he  was  such  a  very  elegant  young 
man,  with  long  yellow  whiskers,  as  I  remember,  and  a 
glass  screwed  into  his  eye!  And  then  the  honour  of  it! 
For  I  was  no  great  beauty  in  those  days,  nor,  goodness 
knows,  at  any  other  time;  but  least  of  all,  I  think,  then. 
I  can  see  myself  as  I  write — a  memory  brushed  up  in 
some  part  by  a  mournful  old  daguerreotype,  in  red  and 
gold  setting — a  tall,  rather  big  girl,  with  brown  hair 
held  in  a  net,  a  very  short  skirt  supported  by  a  hoop, 
and  an  ample  show  of  white  cotton  stocking!  And  yet 
he  bowed  to  me!  Mercifully  the  stocking  was  hidden, 
or  it  might  have  been  otherwise,  but  he  <#</bow. 

Later  on,  alas!  after  the  world  had  lived  down  its 
terror  of  the  snorting,  rushing,  rattling  trains,  the  run- 
ning of  the  coaches  dwindled  down  to  once  a  week  only, 
and  half  the  joy  of  life  was  gone. 

Ah!  those  early  days  in  dear,  sleepy,  dull,  stupid  lit- 
tle Chelmsford!  They  were  wearisome  enough  at  the 
time,  I  take  it,  for  all  the  golden  glamour  with  which 
time  has  clothed  them.  But  now,  as  a  set-off  to  the 
existing,  the  ever-abused,  but  really  enjoyable  and  here- 
after-very-much-to-be-regretted  existing,  they  seem  to 
me  like  glimpses  of  far-off  fairyland  itself,  just  as  then 
the  old  half-forgotten  days  at  Selworth  stood  out  as 
misty  dreams  of  Paradise. 

But,  in  honest  truth,  poor  Chelmsford  must  have 
been  a  very  sink  of  dulness.  Old  Bob  Sellar,  the  milk- 


THE  DAYS  OF  AULD  LANG  SYNE     3 

man,  in  his  embroidered  smock,  the  occasional  town- 
crier,  the  coaches  as  long  as  they  lasted,  and  the  winter 
fox-hunters  galloping  down  to  the  Roothens  on  their 
hacks,  or  else  ambling  through  soberly  on  their  square- 
tailed  hunters — these,  with  once  in  a  blue  moon  the 
bounds  themselves  trotting  meekly  through  the  town, 
were  all  that  we  poor  maids,  young  and  old,  had  to  bring 
us  to  the  window.  There  was  church,  it  is  true,  the  old 
Parish  Church,  with  good  Mr.  Baggally  droning  peace- 
fully from  the  pulpit,  and  the  endless  Merridew  family 
staring  at  us  from  the  pew  opposite  from  under  their  poke 
bonnets  (there  were  two  without  poke  bonnets,  and  these, 
perhaps,  stared  hardest  of  any),  and  the  Hallets,  and 
the  Hay-Brownes,  and  the  Calverlies — the  dull,  dull 
Calverlies — whom  we  knew,  and  who  would  walk  back 
with  us  as  far  as  their  stiff,  square  house,  that  was  so 
like  their  dear,  dowdy  selves.  There  were  others  whom 
I  forget  (it  matters  little),  and  others  whom  I  remember 
(which  matters  equally  little),  they  were  not  of  a  stimu- 
lating kind.  All  the  inhabitants  of  Chelmsford  were 
women,  or  seemed  to  be — women  and  girls,  girls  and 
women.  They  swarmed  everywhere,  in  church,  in  the 
street,  at  the  archery  meetings  that  all  the  world  was 
mad  about,  and  at  the  flower  shows  down  in  the  tent  by 
the  river;  everywhere,  in  short,  except  on  the  coaches 
and  in  the  "Saracen's  Head." 

We  always  passed  the  "Saracen's  Head"  in  those 
days  with  quickened  pace  and  averted  eye,  and  on  the 
far  side  of  the  street.  Goodness  knows  what  scenes  of 
wild  riot  and  debauchery  our  simple  minds  did  not  pic- 
ture within  those  walls!  Poor,  innocent,  reputable  hos- 
telry! furnisher,  too,  of  many  a  sober,  welcome  haven  to 
weary  wayfarer!  The  origin  of  this  grim  investment  is 


4  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

• 
hard  to  fix.     I  think  it  may  have  found  its  birth  one 

winter's  night,  some  two  years  after  the  date  of  my  com- 
ing. We  were  walking  home,  from  tea-taking  with  Mrs. 
Baggally,  my  two  aunts  and  I,  and  under  cover  of  the 
dark,  on  the  near  pavement!  There  were  brilliant  lights 
in  the  windows  of  the  first  floor,  and  as  we  passed  we 
could  hear  (and  in  truth  without  strain)  shouts  of  laugh- 
ter, and  the  bawling  of  a  strong,  rollicking  chorus.  A 
hunting  chorus  I  took  it  to  be,  but  of  that  I  am  not  sure; 
but  whatever  it  was,  from  that  day  on,  the  "Saracen's 
Head"  was  a  place  to  be  passed  hurriedly  and  with 
averted  eye. 

However,  all  this  is  twaddly  and  inconsequent,  and 
of  no  interest  at  all ;  nor  was  it  of  any  interest  to  me  at 
the  time,  only  afterwards,  in  the  light  of  retrospective 
sentiment  which  means  nothing. 

The  Great  Event,  which  I  meant  to  start  away  with 
at  the  beginning,  came  when  I  had  been  at  Chelmsford 
ten  years,  all  but  two  months;  and  it  came  as  we  sat  at 
tea — the  silent,  contemplative  tea,  with  which  we  sus- 
tained vitality  before  bed.  We  never  wasted  words  at 
meals;  we  had  worn  bare  all  recognised  topics  exactly 
seven  years  before.  Both  my  aunts  were  of  anecdotal 
rather  than  discursive  habit;  and  oh!  what  dull  little 
anecdotes  they  were! — dull  the  first  time  of  hearing,  but 
things  of  misery  and  dread  at  the  end  of  ten  long  years! 
Heaven  forgive  me  if  I  turned  at  times  the  cold  ear  of 
inattention. 

But  to  the  Event.  We  were  at  tea,  when  enter  Jane 
with  a  letter — a  letter  for  me!  It  was  the  first  and  only 
letter,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  I  had  ever  received  in 
my  life.  Think  of  that,  ye  maidens  of  busy  pen  and 
breakfast-table  budgets! 


THE  DAYS  OF  AULD  LANG  SYNE    5 

Aunt  Maria  gasped;  Aunt  Emily  became  amiably  sus- 
picious, her  thoughts  flying  back  six  weeks  to  the  young 
beau  on  the  box  of  the  London  coach,  and  his  never-to- 
be-forgotten  bow. 

My  thoughts,  it  must  be  owned,  ran  mildly  in  the 
same  direction,  and  vague  visions  of  titles  and  coronets, 
hurled  recklessly  at  my  white-stockinged  feet,  rose  pleas- 
antly before  my  eyes.  But  it  was  nothing  of  this  kind ; 
it  was  something  far  more  wonderful — so  wonderful, 
indeed,  that  it  deserves  to  be  set  down  in  full: 

SELWORTH,  Z2nd  September. 

MY  DEAR  JOSEPHINE, — It  would  give  your  uncle  and  myself 
great  pleasure  if  you  could  manage  to  pay  us  a  visit  here.  If 
your  dear  aunts  can  spare  you,  we  would  like  you  to  come  at  once, 
and  stay  with  us  till  the  end  of  April,  when  we  shall  be  going  to 
town  for  the  season.  You  will  doubtless  be  as  glad  to  see  the  old 
place  again  as  we  shall  be  to  see  you.  Your  cousins  send  their 
best  love. — With  kindest  regards  to  your  dear  Aunts  Fielding, 
believe  me,  dear  Josephine,  your  very  affectionate  Aunt, 

HARRIET  DE  METRIER. 

P.  S. — I  would  advise  you  to  avoid  the  railroad,  which,  though 
it  might  bring  you  somewhat  quicker,  is  terribly  unsafe,  and,  Dr. 
Watson  assures  me,  highly  injurious  to  the  health. 

What  are  poor  words  to  express  the  effect  of  this 
missive  on  our  little  party?  For  ten  years,  mind,  my 
grand  relations  at  Selworth  Abbey  had  ignored  my  very 
being.  During  ten  years,  out  of  their  boundless  wealth, 
they  had  not  been  able  to  spare  one  penny  for  the  pleas- 
ure or  maintenance  of  poor,  penniless,  homeless  me. 
And  now  this  invitation!  and  for  eight  months,  too!  It 
was  bewildering.  The  magnitude  of  the  event  positively 
stunned  us  for  a  time.  We  felt  much  as  Cinderella  must 
have  felt  when  the  pumpkin  and  the  mice  swelled  into  a 


6  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

coach  and  four,  or  was  it  a  coach  and  six?  Aunt  Maria 
was  the  first  to  recover  herself. 

"It  is  a  great  honour,"  she  said,  reflectively. 

"And  a  great  chance,"  added  Aunt  Emily,  sugges- 
tively. 

And  then  they  both  said,  "Ah!"  and  pursed  their  lips. 

"How  old  is  Norman  now?"  Aunt  Maria  asked  after 
a  pause. 

"Twenty-six,  I  think,  and  Claud  two  years  younger. 
Sophie  must  be  about  your  own  age,  Josephine.  Let  me 
see,  how  old  are  you,  child?" 

"Eighteen,"  I  said. 

"Well,  I  think  Sophie  must  be  a  year  older;  anyhow, 
there's  no  great  difference." 

We  all  drank  more  tea;  we  were  agitated,  one  and  all. 

"Isn't  it  extraordinary?"  I  said  for  the  tenth  time. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  most  extraordinary,  even  more  ex- 
traordinary perhaps  than  you  think."  This  from  Aunt 
Maria. 

"Why?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Norman  is  a  very  great  parti,  and 
eight  months  is  a  long  time,  and — well,  you  are  attrac- 
tive, you  know,  my  dear." 

Was  I?     It  was  the  first  I  had  heard  of  it. 

"Well?"  I  said. 

My  two  aunts  coughed  simultaneously — thin,  genteel 
coughs — behind  their  mittens.  I  saw  them  exchange  a 
quick  glance. 

"Well,  you  see,  Josephine,  it  is  possible  that  Norman, 
or  even  Claud,  might — ahem — grow  attached  to  you." 

"Do  you  mean  fall  in  love?" 

My  aunt  frowned  slightly,  and  puckered  up  her 
mouth.  I  think  she  considered  the  expression  immoral. 


THE  DAYS  OF  AULD  LANG  SYNE     7 

"Well,  yes." 

"What  fun!     I  hope  they  do." 

"They!"    This  from  both  at  once.    "My  dear  child!" 

"Oh,  well,  one  would  do.     Are  they  handsome?" 

"All  the  De  Metriers,  my  dear,  are  handsome.  Your 
poor,  dear  father  was  the  only  one  that  in  any  way  fell 
short  of  the  standard.  And  indeed,  there  is  no  doubt 
he  fell  very  far  short." 

"Poor  papa!  was  he  so  very  ugly?" 

"Yes,  my  dear,  he  was  very  ugly.  He  was  misshapen, 
you  know,  and  then  his  eyes  were  not  straight.  We 
never  could  imagine  what  poor  Lucy  saw  in  him." 

I  gave  a  little  sigh  for  my  poor  dead  parents.  It  was 
only  a  little  one,  for  I  had  never  known  them.  My 
mother  was  only  a  name,  and  my  father  a  misty  mem- 
ory. 

"But  tell  me  about  my  cousins,"  I  said.  "What  are 
they  like?  I  used  to  hate  them  all,  if  I  remember." 

"Norman  is  very  handsome,  like  all  his  race;  not 
very  tall,  and  dark  as  a  foreigner.  He  is  said  to  be 
rather  wild." 

"Wild?"  I  said.  "What's  wild?  How  is  a  man  wild? 
It  sounds  like  a  cat  or  a  bullfinch." 

"I  fancy  it  means,"  said  Aunt  Emily,  doubtfully, 
"that  they  spend  most  of  their  time  at  their  club." 

Aunt  Maria  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"More  than  that,  Emily — more  than  that." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I  like  the  sound  of  it.  I  think  it 
sounds  rather  fascinating.  I  think  I  shall  like  Norman." 

I  half  expected  an  outburst  of  horror.  I  think  that 
was  half  the  reason  why  I  said  it;  it  was  such  fun  shock- 
ing those  dear  old  things.  But  they  were  not 
shocked. 


8  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"He  will  be  very  wealthy,"  sighed  Maria. 

"Perhaps  he  will  like  you, "  suggested  Emily, 
roguishly. 

I  looked  down  at  my  white  cotton  stockings  and 
clump-soled  boots,  and  doubted  it. 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  he  doesn't,"  I  said.  "Who 
wants  him  to?" 

The  evening  meal  had  been  extended  half  an  hour 
beyond  the  prescribed  time.  We  always  sat  down  at  six 
and  rose  at  six-forty  by  the  clock.  It  was  now  twenty 
minutes  past  seven. 

"Maria,"  said  Aunt  Emily,  with  sudden  decision, 
across  the  table,  "Josephine  must  have  clothes.". 

Aunt  Maria  screwed  up  her  mouth  and  nodded  em- 
phatic assent. 

"It  must  be  managed,"  she  said. 

Aunt  Maria  was  the  treasurer. 


CHAPTER  II 

I  ENTER  THE  GOLDEN  GATES 

HPHREE  weeks  later  I  took  the  coach  to  London,  the 
•*•  one  weekly  coach  that  still  ran,  in  defiance  of  the 
ceaseless  rush  of  trains.  Oh!  that  parting  at  the  "Sara- 
cen's Head!"  How  we  cried,  and  laughed,  and  blub- 
bered, and  kissed!  How  we  see-sawed  from  one 
shoulder  to  the  other  as  though  tired  of  kissing  the  same 
cheek!  How  we  'clawed  and  clutched  at  one  another's 
backs!  I  don't  know  which  cried  the  most.  I  think  I 
did.  Young  tears  come  the  readier.  And  the  driver, 
and  the  guard,  and  the  grinning  'ostlers,  and  the  two 
young  men  going  back  to  Oxford,  and  the  thin  commer- 
cial traveller,  and  the  apoplectic  female  on  the  box-seat, 
we  minded  no  more  than  if  they  had  been  moles.  Emo- 
tion such  as  ours  is  blind  to  surroundings.  Why  do  we 
ever  say  good-bye?  It  is  so  much  better  not,  which  is 
bad  grammar,  but  what  I  mean. 

I  tumbled  up  somehow  on  to  the  seat  behind  the 
driver.  The  commercial  traveller  and  the  two  Oxford 
men  were  there  already.  They  were  very  kind;  I  don't 
know  what  they  said,  but  they  were  very  kind.  I  turned 
round  and  waved  my  handkerchief  wildly.  I  think  I 
waved  long  after  we  were  cut  of  sight,  but  I  was  quite 
blind  with  tears;  I  could  see  nothing.  The  Oxford  men 
made  me  change  my  place  and  sit  between  them;  they 
said  it  was  less  dusty.  Ah!  dear  old  Chelmsford!  per- 

9 


io  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

haps  not  really  dear,  but  dear  because  of  associations;  if 
I  had  known  it  was  good-bye  for  ever,  I  might  have  shed 
more  abundant  tears  than  I  did.  And  dear  old  aunts! 
really  dear  old  aunts;  if  I  had  known  I  was  never  again  to 
sit  in  the  front  parlour  drinking  cheap  tea  out  of  the 
cracked  blue  "chancy"  cups,  and  listening,  or  pretend- 
ing to  listen,  to  those  old,  old  anecdotes  that  I  knew  as 
well  as  the  Lord's  Prayer,  I  would  have  died,  died  a 
dozen  deaths,  before  I  would  have  been  dragged  off  to 
London  and  Selworth,  and  the  misty  uncertainty  that 
there  lay  hidden. 

Both  are  long  since  dead — dead  and  forgotten — two 
of  the  many  little  grey  lives  that  go  out  quietly  and 
leave  no  mark  behind.  But  for  me  they  will  always 
stand  out  as  the  best  thing  I  have  chanced  upon  in  this 
world — always  excepting  one  other.  I  used  to  laugh  at 
them,  I  used  to  be  rude  to  them,  I  used  to  snub  them. 
I  thought  them  ignorant  and  stupid  and  prim,  and — 
Heaven  forgive  me! — even  vulgar  and  affected.  And 
it  may  be  they  were  all  this.  Even  now,  sober  and  sen- 
sible as  I  am,  and  full  of  the  grey  wisdom  of  years,  I 
think  they  were.  But  what  is  the  weight  of  such  things 
when  pitted  against  the  simple  sweetness  of  true  tender 
hearts?  And  with  it  all,  I  loved  them,  thank  le  bon  Dieu 
for  that — loved  them  all  the  time  I  was  turning  up  my 
silly  young  nose  at  their  little  old-world  tricks  and  man- 
nerisms; not,  indeed,  because  of  their  good-Samaritan- 
ism  towards  myself,  which,  childlike,  I  took  as  a  matter 
of  course,  but  because  I  was  not  quite  the  fool  in  heart 
that  I  was  in  head.  Peace  be  to  them  and  to  all  such! 
There  is  a  gospel  in  their  very  memory. 

My  fellow-travellers  were  very  kind.  They  pointed 
out  the  many  points  of  interest  for  which  I  had  so  little 


I  ENTER  THE  GOLDEN  GATES     n 

present  appetite,  and  saw  to  my  wraps  and  packages, 
and  to  the  many  needs  that  I  should  never  have  known 
of  but  for  their  showing.  They  brought  me  tea  and 
cake  at  Brentwood,  and  cake  and  tea  again  at  Romford, 
where,  indeed,  I  had  no  stomach  for  it,  and  made  the 
young  man  that  brought  it  give  it  to  the  lady  on  the 
box-seat,  at  which  the  others  all  laughed  till  we  were 
half-way  to  Stratford.  What  they  saw  to  laugh  at  I 
don't  know,  for  the  poor  woman  was  red  and  hot  and 
puffing,  and  I  am  sure  in  far  greater  need  of  refreshment 
than  I  was. 

London  that  night,  where  I  was  met  and  housed  and 
fed  and  comforted  by  one  Mrs.  Jedkins,  a  kindly  soul, 
and  a  friend  of  my  aunts.  She  kept  a  lodging-house  in 
Moorgate  Street. 

The  next  day  on  to  Selworth  by  the  train,  with  a  high 
beating  heart  and  expectation  on  tip-toe.  At  Greystoke 
my  uncle's  carriage  met  me.  Such  a  carriage!  roomy, 
well-padded  in  drab-coloured  cloth,  and  ponderous  as  a 
waggon;  but  with  all  this,  sufficiently  comfortable,  and 
with  a  certain  musty  smell  of  its  own  that  I  liked,  and 
that  hangs  in  my  memory  still,  pleasantly. 

What  a  fine  touch  of  borrowed  glory  there  is  in 
another  man's  carriage — when  one  is  inside  it!  I  felt 
quite  an  inch  taller  (though  there  was  little  need  for  that) 
when  the  dear  fat  old  man  on  the  box  touched  his  hat  to 
me. 

"Miss  de  Metrier?"  he  asked,  beaming  on  me  with  a 
fatherly  air,  and  a  kind  of  "Welcome-to-Selworth" 
smile. 

"Yes, "  I  said,  beaming  back,  "are  you  from  Sel- 
worth?" A  truly  idiotic  question!  but  I  felt  the  need 
for  words. 


12  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

So  my  baggage  was  piled  into  the  rumble,  and  I  my- 
self, full  of  dignity,  climbed  into  the  cavernous  coach, 
which,  after  the  obsolete  manner  of  its  kind,  swayed  with 
my  weight  till  the  step  all  but  touched  the  ground.  An 
elderly  gentleman,  whom  I  took  to  be  the  rector,  handed 
me  in,  hat  in  hand.  I  afterwards  learnt  he  was  mine  host 
of  the  "Red  Lion."  He  stood  bowing  and  smirking  as 
though  I  had  been  the  Queen  herself,  while  we  rumbled 
away  over  the  stones.  The  De  Metrier  carriage  brought 
men's  hats  off  their  heads  in  those  days,  and  pretty 
quick,  too.  Mais  nous  avons  changl  tout  cela. 

Oh,  that  drive!  No  one  will  ever  feel  again  as  I  did 
during  that  drive.  It  needs  a  ten-years'  training  at 
Chelmsford  to  produce  the  sensations  I  felt.  The  mem- 
ory of  Selworth  was  as  a  far-off  dream,  seen  through  a 
golden  haze.  I  hardly  could  bring  myself  to  believe 
that  the  place  really  existed  except  in  my  imagination. 
It  seemed  too  glorious,  too  heavenly  a  thing  to  be  an 
actual  part  of  the  same  world  that  contained  Chelmsford! 

I  knew  that  there  had  been  such  a  place,  for  I  had 
been  there — been  there  for  a  whole  delirious  year,  in 
those  misty  bygone  ages  that  in  childhood  lie  at  the  back 
end  of  ten  years.  But  I  felt  somehow  that  when  I  left 
it  the  place  had  been  turned  out  like  a  lamp,  or  rather 
put  away  like  a  toy  to  prevent  its  getting  spoilt.  It 
seemed  impossible  that  it  should  have  wasted  its  sweet- 
ness all  these  years  without  my  being  there  to  do  it  hom- 
age— a  selfish  idea,  I  suppose,  and  a  very  hard  one  to  put 
in  words,  but  I  have  always  had  it.  I  have  had  it,  too, 
about  people  that  I  worshipped  passionately,  an  idea 
that  they  are  not  really  a  living  part  of  the  world  except 
when  I  am  with  them.  But  there — these  things  concern 
no  one  but  myself.  One  might  as  well  try  and  make  a 


I    ENTER    THE   GOLDEN    GATES  13 

water-colour  drawing  of  one's  soul  as  put  such  things  on 
paper. 

We  rumbled  on  past  farms  and  cottages,  through 
deep-cut  lanes  and  open  fields,  up  hill  and  down  hill, 
and  twisting  about  round  bends  and  corners  in  the  ridic- 
ulous way  country  roads  have;  past  woods,  and  ponds, 
and  windmills,  and  other  landmarks  that  had  been  far 
beyond  the  radius  of  my  eight-year-old  rambles,  and 
that  I  passed  unmoved,  except  by  impatience  to  be  on, 
and  within  sight  of  Selworth — the  real  Selworth  of  my 
dreams,  my  longings,  and  my  imaginings. 

There  seemed  a  kind  of  magic  in  the  very  name. 

"Selworth!  Selworth!  Selworth!"  I  kept  saying 
over  to  myself.  "Can  this  really  be  Selworth  itself?  Is 
it  possible  that  I  am  actually  there?  actually  within  reach 
of  it  this  very  minute?" 

I  thought  at  times  I  was  dreaming.  I  had  so  often 
dreamt  of  it  during  the  past  ten  years — real,  night 
dreams — and  never,  curiously  enough,  was  the  Selworth 
of  my  dreams  in  the  slightest  degree  like  the  Selworth 
of  my  waking  recollection.  Never,  in  fact,  was  it  twice 
the  same.  Each  individual  dream  had  house  and  park 
of  its  own  particular  fashioning,  as  different  in  size, 
structure,  design,  shape,  and  style  from  those  of  the  last 
night's  dream  as  each  and  every  one  of  these  dream- 
palaces  was  from  the  original.  And  yet  in  my  dreams 
they  were  all  Selworth — all  absolutely  and  unmistakably 
Selworth;  and  all,  in  whatever  guise  they  came,  the  one 
enchanted  spot  beside  which  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
was  a  howling  desert.  I  was  happier  in  those  dreams 
than  I  have  ever  been  in  life;  happy  with  the  happiness 
of  Heaven,  because  imagination  labelled  a  fancy-built 
park,  "Selworth!" 


i4  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

But  here  in  very  truth  was  the  real  thing  at  last— Sel- 
worth  in  the  very  flesh!  I  let  down  the  window,  and 
"pushed  my  eager  face  out  into  the  cool  night  air. 
Things  were 'beginning  to  look  familiar,  and  I  knew  we 
must  be  near  the  Greystoke  Lodge. 

There  was  a  tre'e  in  the  park  in  which  I  am  sure  a  full 
third  of  my  life  -had  been  spent  when  I  was  there  before. 
Sophie  (pronounced  Sophy  by  all  except  Aunt  Harriet) 
Sophie  and  I  had  made  a  cave,  a  fortress,  a  sanctuary, 
and  a  fastness  of  'this  tree,  especially  a  fastness,  what- 
ever that  may  be;  we  were  very  fond  of  that  word. 
Claud  used  at  times  to  come  with  us,  and  christened  it 
Inversnaid — he  had  read  Rob  Roy,  which  we  had  not. 
But  we  liked  the  name,  and  it  stuck.  It  was  the  biggest 
tree  in  the  world,  by  far  the  biggest,  not  so  much  in 
height,  as  in  rotundity — a  pollard  beech,  lopped  off 
somewhere  in  the  days  of  Adam,  about  ten  feet  from 
the  ground.  As  a  result,  five  main  branches  shot  out 
from  the  seat  of  pollardism,  each  branch  as  big  as  an 
adult  forest  oak.  The  spaces  between  these  main 
branches  were  completely  choked  up  (in  their  lower 
parts)  by  a  dense  mass  of  brushwood,  among  which  were 
any  number  of  big  spiky  knobs,  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  hedgehogs  stuck  on  the  end  of  rolling-pins. 
I  think  these  knobs  were  a  specialty  of  Inversnaid; 
at  least  I  have  never  seen  them  in  any  other  tree, 
and  they  gave  it  an  immensity  of  character.  And  in  the 
middle  of  the  branches  and  brushwood  was  an  earthen 
floor  quite  five  feet  square,  free  from  all  growth  and 
encumbrance,  and  on  which  half  a  dozen  of  us  could 
have  stood  upright  and  yet  been  invisible  (even  in  mid- 
winter) to  any  below.  This  was  the  Banqueting  Hall. 
Then  there  were  little  ponds  of  water  dotted  here  and 


I    ENTER   THE   GOLDEN    GATES  15 

there  about  the  lower  part  of  the  tree,  the  largest  of 
which  was  Lake  Superior,  and  other  smaller  plateaux, 
where  we  sowed  mustard  and  cress  and  potatoes  and 
onions;  and  what's  more,  they  grew.  Each  of  us  had  a 
branch  to  ourselves,  even  Norman  (we  gave  him  the 
worst),  but  the  Banqueting  Hall  was  common  to  all. 

And  at  the  root  of  the  fifth  branch,  which  had  no 
owner,  was  the  fireplace.  Without  the  fireplace  all  the 
rest  would  have  been  as  nothing.  We  lit  vast  fires 
there,  summer  and  winter;  not  little,  sputtering,  smoul- 
dering make-believes,  but  real  red-hot  fires,  with  flames 
a  yard  high.  And  the  tree  never  seemed  a  ha'porth  the 
worse!  Nor  is  it  any  the  worse  to  this  day,  and  it  is 
still  the  biggest  tree  in  the  world,  and  that  not  merely 
for  old  sake's  sake.  It  stands  in  a  big  wood,  just  below 
a  shelving  bank,  and  one  long  straggling  feeler  shoots  out 
to  within  reach  of  the  top  of  this  bank.  This  was  the 
Drawbridge,  and  our  only  means,  at  that  age,  of  get- 
ting up.  We  wriggled  up  on  our  middles;  it  was  prob- 
ably not  graceful,  and  it  was  a  very  slow  process,  and 
bad  for  sashes  and  belts,  and  at  times  it  hurt  a  good 
deal,  but  it  was  the  only  way  we  could  manage,  and  we 
liked  it.  It  gave  an  idea  of  inaccessibility.  Blessed 
Inversnaid! 

All  the  way  from  Greystoke  I  had  been  thinking  of 
this  tree,  and  indeed  for  many  a  day  before  that.  I  made 
up  my  mind  it  was  the  very  first  thing  I  would  go  and 
see  in  the  morning.  I  wondered  whether  Sophie  had 
grown  too  old  and  sober  to  care  for  such  things,  and 
whether  we  should  still  have  to  wriggle  up  the  draw- 
bridge on  our  sashes. 

I  was  still  wondering  when  we  pulled  up  at  the  Lodge. 
After  a  good  deal  of  shouting  and  clanging  and  banging 


16  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

of  bolts  and  bars,  the  great  iron  gates  swung  ponder- 
ously back,  and  we  lumbered  on  our  way.  I  was  just 
wild  with  excitement.  I  had  both  windows  down  the 
whole  way,  and  my  neck  stretched  to  its  limit  out  of  one 
or  other  of  the  two,  searching  for  old  friends.  The 
night  was  clear  and  starry,  and  showed  up  the  park  to 
right  and  left  in  a  kind  of  dim,  ghostly  fashion.  Old 
friends  crowded  on  my  memory  at  every  turn.  The 
marsh  at  the  foot  of  the  lake — "Marigold  Marsh,"  as 
we  used  to  call  it — then  the  sluice,  and  the  pump,  and 
the  big,  druidical  stones  that  were  planted  edgeways 
between  the  road  and  the  water — stones  full  of  odd  little 
cavities  and  hollows  that  caught  and  held  the  rain. 
Then  a  stretch  of  open  park,  with  an  uncertain  glimpse 
of  the  clump  that  hid  the  boat-house — two  gates,  first  a 
wooden  and  then  an  iron  one,  and,  directly  after,  the 
winding  climb  that  ends  in  the  House  itself.  My  frame 
of  mind  was  a  curious  one.  I  found  it  hard  to  say 
whether  I  had  really  remembered  all  these  things  before 
I  saw  them,  or  whether  the  sight  of  them  had  wakened 
my  memory  with  such  a  jerk  that  I  felt  as  though  I  had 
never  forgotten  them.  Anyhow,  the  impression  on  my 
mind  was  that  I  had  never  left  the  place,  and  that  all 
these  half-forgotten  landmarks  were  as  familiar  and 
every-dayish  as  my  own  face  in  the  glass.  It  was  an  odd 
feeling,  and  rather  disappointing. 

We  clattered  up  under  the  great  portico,  the  double 
doors  flew  open,  and  the  red  glow  of  hospitality  flooded 
the  night. 

I  passed  in  the  wake  of  the  butler  through  the  little 
stone  entrance-hall  into  the  Great  Hall  beyond.  How 
well  I  remembered  that  Great  Hall!  and  the  strange 
echo  of  one's  footsteps  as  one  crossed  it!  It  was  as  big 


I    ENTER   THE    GOLDEN   GATES  17 

as  a  cathedral,  a  full  two  stories  higher  than  the  rest  of 
the  house,  and  a  hundred  and  twenty  feet  long.  At  one 
end  was  an  immense  stained  glass  window  showing  St. 
George  killing  a  lovely  blue  and  red  dragon,  and  at  the 
other  end  two  galleries,  one  above  the  other,  correspond- 
ing with  the  first  and  second  floors  of  the  house.  It 
was  a  folly,  if  you  will !  Perfectly  useless  for  anything 
except  music,  for  which  it  was  glorious,  and  in  cold 
weather  like  an  ice-house;  but  I  loved  it;  I  had  loved 
it  as  a  child,  and  I  loved  it  now,  even  more,  I  think, 
as  I  clattered  across  the  polished  wood  floor  to  face  the 
ordeal  of  welcome.  The  Great  Hall  was  always  three 
parts  dark  at  night.  It  was  impossible  to  light  it,  and 
the  thing  was  not  attempted.  There  was  a  lamp  in 
each  of  the  galleries,  and  two  standard  lamps  on  little 
tables  that  stood  by  the  fireplace,  and  beyond  this  noth- 
ing but  the  light  of  the  huge  log  fire  that  sent  red  and 
black  shadows  dancing  up  into  the  hidden  hollows  of 
the  rafters.  A  glorious  place  for  ghosts,  and  "hide-and- 
seek,"  and  "bear" !  but  always  a  little  terrifying  with  its 
vastness  and  gloom  and  hollow  echoes. 

The  drawing-room  beyond  was  a  blaze  of  light — 
almost  dazzling  to  my  unaccustomed  eyes.  They  were 
all  there,  and  they  all  rose  and  kissed  me,  first  Aunt 
Harriet  and  Sophie,  then  Uncle  Guy,  Norman,  and 
Claud— Claud  a  little  shyly. 

"Goodness!"  I  thought,  "what  a  kissing  family!" 

Aunt  Harriet  held  me  at  arm's  length  with  stock- 
taking eyes. 

"You  are  not  pretty,  child,"  she  said  by  way  of  wel- 
come. 

"Pooh!"  said  uncle,  with  his  back  to  the  fire.  "I 
think  she's  very  well;  and,  by  Gad!  a  fine  upstanding 


i8  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

chit!  What  say  you,  Norman,  my  boy?  No  fault  with 
that  build,  eh?  Good  back  and  shoulders — clean  and 
straight  of  limb?" 

"I  was  not  talking  of  dear  Josephine  as  a  horse," 
said  my  aunt,  icily.  "She  would  possibly  make  an  excel- 
lent horse,  but  she  is  not  pretty,  not  even  distingue-\oo\i- 
ing.  However,  when  one  thinks  of  what  poor  dear 
Gerard  was,  and  her  mother  a  mere  bourgeoise,  and  all, 
we  must  make  allowances." 

As  if  any  allowances  were  any  good !  I  felt  humbled 
and  shy  and  very  red.  I  knew  I  was  not  pretty,  but  it 
is  not  nice  to  be  told  it  before  a  roomful  of  strangers. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  I  said,  laughing,  I  think  a  little 
awkwardly.  "I  hope  I  am  not  a  disgrace  to  the  family 
name." 

"Nonsense,  child,"  said  my  uncle,  patting  my  cheek, 
"you'll  do  very  nicely,  never  fear.  Egad!  some  of  our 
stock  would  be  none  the  worse  of  a  little  of  your  bone 
and  blood." 

He  was  a  splendidly  handsome  man,  this  uncle  of 
mine,  about  fifty,  tall  and  big,  with  a  jolly  genial  face 
and  big  bushy  whiskers.  I  took  a  liking  to  him  from 
the  first.  His  wife  was  very  different,  thin,  small,  and 
sharp-featured,  with  iron-grey  ringlets  falling  on  her 
shoulders.  She  looked  like  an  icicle,  and  she  fright- 
ened me  with  the  chill  stare  of  her  faded  blue  eyes. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  cried  my  uncle,  suddenly,  clap- 
ping his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  "Here  we  are,  talking 
and  jabbering  like  a  pack  of  fools,  and  this  poor  little 
girl  starving,  as  like  as  not.  Here,  Norman,  you  young 
dog,  take  your  cousin  to  the  breakfast  room;  you'll  find 
supper  there.  And  give  her  a  good  glass  of  port,  or 
half  a  bottle  of  burgundy,  or  some  tea,  if  she  likes  it; 


I  ENTER  THE  GOLDEN  GATES     19 

or  coffee  perhaps,  or  some  negus.     Send  down  for  some 
negus — nothing  like  it  after  a  journey." 

This  last  was  shouted  after  us,  across  the  darkness 
of  the  hall,  as  we  dipped  into  the  long  passage  beyond. 

Norman  was  very  kind — very  attentive.  He  talked  a 
great  deal,  and  made  me  laugh,  chiefly,  if  I  remember, 
at  the  expense  of  my  uncle  and  aunt.  He  was  very  hand- 
some, built  on  a  smaller  scale  than  his  father,  but  very 
handsome,  dark,  with  a  high  colour,  and  altogether 
rather  foreign-looking. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  by  the  time  we  finished  supper  and 
got  back  to  the  drawing-room.  They  were  all  yawning; 
my  uncle,  I  think,  asleep. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  he  cried,  jumping  up,  "back 
already?  That's  no  kind  of  a  supper — no  kind  of  a  sup- 
per." 

"Sophie,  my  love,"  chimed  in  my  aunt,  taking  no 
manner  of  notice  of  poor  Uncle  Guy,  "will  you  save  my 
old  legs,  and  show  dear  Josephine  her  room?  You  know, 
the  panelled  room  in  the  east  turret.  Good-night,  my 
dear  child;  sleep  well,  and  be  careful  of  fire." 

She  pecked  my  cheek  frigidly,  and  I  smiled  and 
nodded  myself  hurriedly  out  of  the  room,  rather  dread- 
ing the  embraces  of  the  whole  family. 

We  passed  down  a  long  carpeted  corridor,  then 
turned  to  the  right,  up  a  very  narrow  spiral  stone  stair- 
case, then  once  more  to  the  right  along  another  pas- 
sage, and  we  were  at  the  east  turret.  The  whole  house 
was  very  dimly  lit — I  had  a  recollection  of  this  from  old 
days;  lit  by  yellow  japanned  lamps  hung  from  the  walls 
at  long  intervals,  generally  at  a  corner.  Some  of  the 
offshoots  and  by-passages  had  no  lamps  at  all.  Oh! 
the  terror  of  those  dark  silent  passages  in  the  old  days! 


20  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

They  were,  as  we  all  knew  as  children,  the  chosen  haunts 
of  robbers  and  bears,  and  of  little  hunchbacked  men, 
who  pounced  out  and  pursued  one  with  noiseless  foot- 
fall. These  little  hunchbacks  had  pursued  me  time 
without  end  in  my  dreams,  and  often  enough,  waking,  I 
would  hear  their  quick  breathing  behind  me,  and  race 
like  a  coursed  rabbit  down  the  long  winding  passages 
and  stairs,  till  I  reached  the  drawing-room,  or  the  library, 
or  the  morning-room,  or  any  other  place  where  prosy 
protective  people  sat  in  spectacles,  and  read  or  wrote 
by  the  light  of  many  lamps.  And  just  before  I  reached 
the  door  I  would  slow  down  to  a  walk,  and  turn  the 
handle  quite  quietly,  and  walk  in  with  the  most  com- 
posed manner  in  the  world,  as  though  long,  dim,  shadowy 
passages  were  a  thing  to  be  left  almost  with  reluctance. 

All  this,  of  course,  was  at  eight,  not  at  eighteen.  At 
eighteen  I  would  walk  past  the  black  mouths  of  those 
passages  very  stiff  and  brave,  humming  or  whistling  (no 
particular  tune),  and  never  once  break  into  a  run  from 
start  to  finish.  However,  this  is  by  the  way. 

My  room  filled  the  entire  turret — that  is,  a  small  stair- 
case ran  up  to  the  door  of  the  room,  and  there  ended. 
Sophie  told  me  Norman  slept  5n  the  room  above  mine, 
in  case  I  might  be  frightened  at  being  so  isolated,  but 
that  his  room  was  got  at  from  the  passage  above,  and  to 
get  to  one  room  from  the  other  you  had  to  go  half-way 
round  the  house;  so,  as  I  told  her  laughingly,  he  would 
not  be  of  much  help  to  me  in  case  of  attack  by  robbers 
or  bears  or  hunchbacks.  For  we  had  been  discussing 
these  old  bogies  on  the  way  up. 

It  was  a  lovely  room,  all  panelled  in  dark  oak,  and 
hung  with  bright,  shiny  chintz — little  pink  roses  sepa- 
rated from  each  other  by  crinkly  blue  ribbons.  There 


I    ENTER   THE   GOLDEN   GATES  21 

was  a  splendid  marble  chimney-piece,  and  over  it  the 
only  picture  in  the  room,  the  portrait  of  a  singularly 
handsome  young  man  in  the  court  dress  of  George  the 
First.  It  was  evidently,  even  to  my  eye,  a  picture  of 
great  value  and  beauty. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"My  great-grandfather,"  Sophie  said.  "Maurice  de 
Metrier,  who  married  .the  Flemish  heiress,  and  brought 
all  the  money  into  the  family.  Isn't  he  handsome?  He 
built  this  end  of  the  house,  you  know;  added  it  on  to 
the  old  part,  and  my  grandfather  Mordaunt,  'the  old 
Squire,'  as  we  call  him,  built  the  west  wing  at  the  other 
end.  I  believe  this  was  Maurice's  room." 

"And  what  was  Mordaunt  like?"  I  asked,  looking 
with  interest  at  the  splendid  features  of  the  man  before 
me. 

"Mordaunt  was  better  looking  even  than  Maurice. 
You'll  see  him  all  over  the  place — one  in  the  drawing- 
room,  another  over  the  fireplace  in  the  dining-room,  a 
Sir  Joshua,  and  two  heads  by  Lawrence  in  papa's  sit- 
ting-room. He  was  very  wicked,  they  say."  This  in  a 
tone  of  pride. 

"Wicked!     Why,  what  did  he  do?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  he  did,  but  he  was  a  desper- 
ate rake.  They  were,  you  know,  in  those  days." 

"Isn't  it  wonderful  you  should  be  such  a  handsome 
family?  and  for  so  long,  too?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sophie,  looking  at  herself  with  much 
complacency  in  the  glass.  "We  have  always  been 
famous  for  our  looks.  You  know  our  motto,  Virtus  et 
venustas.  You  see  the  heads  of  the  family  have  always 
made  it  a  point  of  honour  to  marry  beautiful  women." 

"But — "  I  said,  and  then  stopped  short  in  confusion. 


22  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Yes,"  she  said,  laughing,  "I  know  what  you  are 
thinking  of;  you  are  thinking  of  mamma.  But  she  was 
a  great  beauty  when  she  married ;  she  has  been  very  ill, 
which  makes  her  look  worn  and  wizen,  but  she  used  to 
be  a  famous  beauty.  I  believe  she  was  the  image  of 
what  I  am." 

I  made  no  answer,  and  shortly  afterwards  my  cousin 
rose  and  yawned. 

"Good-night,"  she  said.  "I  must  be  getting  to  my 
room  before  they  put  the  lights  out." 

I  am  afraid  I  made  a  face  at  her  as  she  went,  behind 
her  back,  of  course.  It  was  very  silly  and  childish,  but 
I  was  disgusted  at  her  calm  vanity;  and  also,  there  is  no 
doubt  about  it,  I  was  jealous  of  her  looks — yes,  horridly 
jealous.  I  think  I  felt  aggrieved  in  a  fashion  that  it 
should  be  my  fate  to  fall  so  far  short  of  the  family  stand- 
ard in  appearance.  Sophie  had  a  high  forehead  and  deli- 
cately arched  eyebrows,  beautiful  big  pensive  eyes,  a 
slightly  aquiline  nose,  and  the  regular  Cupid's-bow 
mouth.  Her  neck  was  long  and  swan-like,  and  she  wore 
long  fair  ringlets,  that  fell  almost  to  her  shoulders.  I 
went  and  stood  before  my  glass,  and  what  I  saw  there 
was  very  different,  and  all  wrong,  as  I  knew  from  the  por- 
traits in  Heath's  "Book  of  Beauty"  and  the  "Picturesque 
Annual."  The  hair  grew  much  too  low  on  my  forehead, 
my  eyebrows  were  too  straight  and  thick,  my  nose 
turned  up,  and  my  mouth  was  much  too  wide,  and  gen- 
erally grinning.  I  felt  that  I  might  as  well  try  and  fly  as 
affect  the  languishing  air  that  sat  so  naturally  on  Sophie. 
"Pooh!"  I  thought,  "who  cares?  I'll  run  her  a  race 
to-morrow." 


CHAPTER   III 

INVERSNAID 

TS  there  in  the  whole  wide  world  any  more  heavenly 
•*•  and  glorious  feeling  than  that  of  waking  up  for  the 
first  time  in  the  place  one  has  been  looking  forward  to 
for  days  and  weeks — a  place,  too,  that  for  years  one  has 
dreamt  of  lovingly  as  a  kind  of  inaccessible  heaven?  At 
cock-crow  I  was  out  of  bed,  with  my  dishevelled  head  a 
yard  out  of  the  window,  drinking  in  the  sweet,  damp  air, 
and  all  the  other  smells  and  sights  and  sounds  of  early 
morning.  It  was  a  bright  sunny  morning  at  the  end  of 
September.  The  grass  between  the  beds  was  grey  with 
a  soaking  dew,  in  which  three  cock-pheasants,  in  the 
full  glory  of  their  winter  plumage,  were  wading  about 
seraphically.  A  couple  of  robins  were  warbling  pianis- 
simo among  the  bushes,  and  just  beyond  the  end  of  the 
garden  a  long  procession  of  rooks  was  sailing  over  the 
treetops,  cawing  ecstatically  at  thought  of  the  early  worm. 
It  was  a  particular  little  garden  of  its  own  that  lay 
under  my  window,  and  not  a  very  little  one  either,  only 
when  compared  to  the  others.  It  stretched  away  for 
about  a  hundred  yards  to  the  big  trees  beyond,  and  was 
bounded  to  the  right  and  to  the  front  by  a  fine  big  stone 
balustrade.  On  the  left  side  it  tumbled  down  by  ter- 
races to  a  greater  garden  below,  but  with  that  part  I 
never  concerned  myself  greatly.  The  part  under  my  win- 
dow I  got  to  look  on  as  my  own  particular  property. 

23 


24  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Selworth!  Selworth!"  I  kept  saying  to  myself.  "Is 
this  really  you  at  last,  or  am  I  dreaming?" 

A  gardener  came  suddenly  round  the  corner,  and 
nearly  had  a  fit,  I  think,  at  seeing  me.  I  took  a  run 
and  landed  in  the  middle  of  my  big  bed  with  one  bound. 
Presently  there  came  to  my  ear  two  of  the  most  sooth- 
ing sounds  in  the  whole  wide  world — the  gentle  raking 
of  gravel  paths,  and  the  big  musical  hum  of  a  mowing- 
machine.  Oh!  how  I  got  to  love  that  mowing-machine, 
and  the  little  piebald  pony  that  pulled  it,  and  the  pauses 
at  the  corners,  or  where  the  tin  was  emptied!  It  was 
always  going — every  morning  in  some  part  or  other  of 
the  garden. 

Ten  minutes  to  seven  by  my  clock,  and  breakfast  not 
till  nine!  I  kicked  about  restlessly,  and  wished  it  was 
two  hours  later.  Could  an  able-bodied  girl  possibly  be 
quiet  for  so  long,  and  on  such  a  morning?  I  thought  of 
going  to  pull  Sophie  out  of  bed  and  getting  her  to  come 
out,  and  then  I  remembered  with  a  groan  that  I  didn't 
know  her  room.  How  maddening!  I  felt  I  positively 
must  go  out.  Inversnaid!  Heavenly  inspiration,  I 
would  go  and  see  Inversnaid!  Of  course;  why  had  I  not 
thought  of  it  before? 

In  one  second  I  was  out  of  bed,  and  twenty  minutes 
after  I  was  stealing  on  tip-toe  down  my  circular  stair- 
case. I  met  a  housemaid  sweeping  the  passage,  and  a 
girl  scrubbing  the  stairs,  and  a  footman  collecting  the 
yellow  japanned  lamps  off  the  walls,  and  they  all  stared 
at  me  as  if  I  had  no  business  at  all  to  be  about  at  such 
hours.  I  had  no  idea  of  how  to  get  out  of  the  house, 
but  thinking  to  avoid  the  main  thoroughfares,  scurried 
down  the  little  spiral  staircase  that  joined  the  first  and 
second  floors.  At  the  bottom  of  this,  by  luck,  I  found 


INVERSNAID  25 

a  glass  door  opening  to  the  garden — not  my  garden,  but 
round  the  corner.  It  was  locked,  but  the  key  was  in  it, 
and  next  minute  I  was  outside,  feeling  rather  guilty. 

I  came  plump  upon  three  gardeners,  who  pretended 
not  to  see  me  till  I  was  past,  when  they  straightened 
their  backs  and  stared  at  me  till  I  vanished  round  the 
corner  of  the  turret.  I  looked  up  at  my  own  open  win- 
dow, and  at  the  many  other  closed  ones.  "Stuffy  old 
things!"  I  thought.  The  three  cock-pheasants  went 
skimming  away  over  the  balustrade  into  the  trees,  and 
I — seeing  no  better  way  out,  and  thinking  the  shortest 
way  was  the  quickest — followed  them  with  a  vault,  a 
long  scramble,  and  a  still  longer  drop. 

Inversnaid  was  not  close.  It  lay  a  good  mile  and  a 
half  away  across  "the  Plain."  I  wondered  if  they  still 
called  it  "the  Plain,"  that  huge  stretch  of  open  park 
between  the  house  and  the  Flexham  Woods  beyond.  It 
was  a  terrible  deceiver,  that  Plain.  One  started  out 
full  of  the  expectation  of  getting  across  in  ten  minutes 
or  so;  but  when  the  ten  minutes  were  gone,  the  woods 
on  the  hill  were  as  far  away  as  ever,  and  the  house  still 
quite  close!  It  was  a  shocking  place  to  walk,  so  dull, 
and  featureless,  and  monotonous;  and  the  worst  of  it 
was,  almost  all  the  glories  of  glades  and  glens,  and  woods 
and  water,  lay  on  the  far  side  of  it — <z//,  in  fact,  except 
"Marigold  Marsh,"  and  the  lake,  and  the  old  boat- 
house,  and  the  chalk-pit  at  the  other  end  by  the  Well- 
ham  Lodge.  But  in  old  days  there  had  been  one  huge 
compensation  in  the  fact  that  the  Plain  was  an  insur- 
mountable hindrance  to  the  "grown-ups"  coming  and 
poking  about  in  our  own  particular  haunts;  this  made 
up  for  everything. 

It  took  me  some  little  hunting  to  find  Inversnaid.     It 


26  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

was  never  quite  easy  to  find — too  many  other  big  trees 
round  it,  and  no  track  or  anything.  But  when  it  was 
found,  it  stood  out  at  once  unchallenged  as  the  king  of 
all  other  trees  that  were  and  had  been  or  ever  would  be. 
It  was  just  as  big  as  ever.  Here,  at  least,  there  had 
been  no  exaggeration  of  infant  fancy;  the  Plain,  per- 
haps, was  not  quite  so  long  as  it  used  to  be,  but  the  tree 
was  still  the  biggest  tree  in  the  world,  mathematically 
round,  vast,  impenetrable,  and  awe-inspiring  in  its 
majestic  silence.  No  gales  ever  swayed  the  branches 
or  ruffled  the  serenity  of  Inversnaid;  it  was  too  solid  and 
compact.  Well,  of  course,  I  got  up  it,  and  in  the  old 
way,  by  the  same  old  branch  (there  was  no  one  looking), 
and  I  sat  there  for  half  an  hour,  divinely  happy,  and 
full  of  a  mad  longing  for  matches  wherewith  to  light  a 
fire.  Then  I  went  home,  a  little  late  for  breakfast. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  cried  uncle.  "What  a  fine 
colour!  Where  have  you  been,  little  Joe?  You  look  as 
fresh  as  a  June  rose  at  sunrise." 

"I  have  been  for  a  walk,"  I  said;  "I  couldn't  stay 
in  bed." 

"What!  a  walk,  and  all  alone?  Norman,  you  lazy 
young  rascal,  what  were  you  about  not  to  escort  your 
cousin?  and  her  first  day,  too,  at  Selworth!  Gad!  sir, 
in  my  young  days,  I  wouldn't  have  needed  bidding;  but 
chivalry's  dead  nowadays,  damme!  yes,  dead  as  Neb- 
uchadnezzar. No  such  thing,  little  Joe;  no  such 
thing." 

"Oh,  but  I  like  going  alone,"  I  said,  laughing  at  his 
earnestness. 

"Like  going  alone!"  he  cried,  "like  going  alone! 
Nonsense,  nonsense;  mustn't  be  allowed,  mustn't  be 
allowed,  not  so  long  as  these  two  young  boobies  are  in 


INVERSNAID  27 

the  house  kicking  their  heels.  See  to  it,  Norman, 
another  day,  or  I'll  disinherit  you,  damme  if  I 
don't." 

All  this  in  the  jolliest  manner  possible,  so  that  we  all 
laughed;  but  for  my  own  part  I  thought  that  Norman, 
with  his  airs  and  affectations,  and  little  languid  graces, 
would  be  a  nuisance  so  insufferable  that  I  would  sooner 
keep  my  bed.  Claud  would  be  better,  but  best  of  all,  of 
course,  Sophie,  for  I  was  not  afraid  of  her.  So,  after 
breakfast,  I  got  her  alone. 

"Where  do  you  think  I  was  this  morning?"  I  said. 

"I  don't  know.  I  know  where  you  ought  to  have 
been." 

"Where?" 

"In  chapel,  of  course." 

"Oh,  nonsense, "  I  said;  "I  am  a  Protestant.  Didn't 
you  know  that?  No,  I  was  at  Inversnaid. " 

"Inversnaid!     What  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

"Sophie,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  forgotten?" 

"Forgotten  what?" 

"Why,  Inversnaid;  our  tree,  of  course.  Don't  you 
remember?" 

"Oh!  that  stupid  old  tree.  I  had  forgotten  all  about 
it." 

"O  Sophie,  how  could  you?  Will  you  come  there  with 
me  now,  and  we'll  light  a  fire?" 

"My  dear  Josephine!  we  are  grown-up  young  ladies, 
and  young  ladies  don't  climb  up  trees.  Besides,  where's 
the  fun  of  it?" 

"Well,  I  climbed  up  it,  and  I  thought  it  very  good 
fun,  though  I  was  alone,  and  hadn't  any  matches.  I 
went  right  up  to  the  top  of  my  branch,  and  sat  there 
half  an  hour.  Of  course,  I  didn't  go  on  to  any  of  your 


28  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

branches.  You  know  that  always  was  trespassing,  unless 
one  had  an  invitation." 

"You  baby!" 

"Well,  I  like  being  a  baby.     So  you  won't  come?" 

"No,  my  dear  girl;  of  course  not.  Think  of  one's 
clothes!" 

"Well,  what  do  you  do?" 

"Oh!  we  ride,  and  we  drive,  and  we  walk,  and  go  to 
the  archery  meetings.  But,  of  course,  it  is  shockingly 
dull  here,  except  when  there  are  visitors  staying  in  the 
house." 

I  felt  a  little  chilled,  and  a  good  deal  disappointed. 
Was  life  at  Selworth  going  to  fall  short  of  my  dreams 
after  all?  Of  course,  every  one  knows  things  always  do 
fall  short  of  the  dreams  of  anticipation ;  but  I  thought 
otherwise  then,  and  the  first  teaching  of  the  lesson  hurt 
me  so  that  for  a  little  more  I  could  have  cried.  I 
thought  Sophie  stiff  and  stupid  and  stuck-up.  I  had 
learnt  enough  in  that  short  five  minutes'  talk  to  tell  me 
once  and  for  all  that  we  could  never  be  the  close  bosom 
friends  and  confidants  that  I  had  pictured.  She  was  a 
smart  young  lady,  and  I — well,  I  suppose  she  was  right — 
I  was  a  baby,  a  big  baby,  and  with  no  wish  to  be  any- 
thing else.  But  when  one  is  a  baby,  it  is  nice  to  have 
another  baby  of  about  the  same  age  to  play  with,  other- 
wise one's  babyhood  falls  flat.  But  here  at  Selworth  it 
was  quite  clear  to  me  before  luncheon  on  that  first  day 
that  there  were  no  babies  of  any  age.  They  were  one 
and  all  smart,  amiably  conceited,  and  stupid — yes,  em- 
phatically stupid ;  people  who  can  no  longer  be  babies 
because  they  happen  to  have  done  growing,  must  be 
stupid.  Not  that  I  took  a  dislike  to  my  Selworth  rela- 
tions; on  the  contrary,  I  liked  them  all  in  their  way,  but 


INVERSNAID  29 

I  saw  at  once  that  there  was  no  actual  kindred  spirit 
among  them.  They  were  all  kind  to  me,  and  even  affec- 
tionate, and  Uncle  Guy  especially  was  so  amazingly 
generous  at  times  I  was  quite  ashamed  of  taking  the 
presents  he  showered  upon  me. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  he  would  say,  "we  must  dress  little 
Joe  up  a  bit.  Send  for  Heloise,  Harriet." 

"My  dear  Guy,"  my  aunt  remonstrated,  "surely  you 
are  not  serious?  The  child  does  very  well  as  she  is. 
What  does  she  want  with  smart  clothes  in  a  place  like 
this,  where  there  is  no  one  to  see  her?" 

"What  does  Sophie  want  with  her  smart  clothes, 
then?"  retorted  my  uncle,  with  a  chuckle.  "No,  no, 
Harriet;  give  the  child  a  chance.  Gad!  with  a  figure 
like  that,  old  Heloise  ought  to  dress  her  for  nothing; 
damme  but  she  ought!" 

My  aunt  was  not  pleased,  I  could  see,  and  I  thought 
Sophie  cocked  her  nose  and  sniffed  a  little.  But  Heloise 
came. 

One  of  the  first  things  I  noticed  at  Selworth  Abbey 
was  that  my  uncle  had  his  way  in  everything.  At  first 
sight  he  appeared  easy-going  and  good-natured — as 
indeed  he  was,  when  things  went  right;  and  on  the 
other  hand,  Aunt  Harriet  seemed  determined  and  strong- 
willed  to  the  verge  of  obstinacy.  But  whenever  those 
two  wills  came  into  conflict,  my  aunt's  went  down  like 
corn  before  the  wind.  I  noticed  it  a  score  of  times.  I 
noticed,  too,  that  on  occasions  Uncle  Guy  could  fly  into 
such  passions  as  shook  the  whole  house.  No  one  would 
have  guessed  it  to  see  him;  he  looked  so  sleek  and  jolly 
and  comfortable. 

However,  as  I  say,  Heloise  came,  all  the  way  from 
Bond  Street,  and  I  was  fitted  for  frocks  and  mantles  and 


30  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

a  riding-habit,  and  evening  dresses  cut  below  the  shoul- 
der, and  goodness  knows  what  else  besides.  And 
Heloise  came  all  the  way  a  second  time  to  try  them  on, 
and  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  raved  about  la  belle 
taille  de  Mademoiselle — all  of  which  I  took  for  what  it  was 
worth;  and  in  due  course  the  result  of  all  this  came,  and 
the  wardrobes  in  the  Panelled  Room  were  packed  to 
overflowing,  and  a  silly  little  fool  spent  half  the  day  atti- 
tudinising and  cutting  capers  before  the  long  cheval- 
glass,  to  her  own  complete  satisfaction. 

This,  however,  was  not  till  I  had  been  two  months  at 
Selworth.  The  first  night  the  things  came,  I  put  on  one 
of  the  evening  dresses,  a  yellow  satin  one,  I  think,  for 
dinner;  and  Norman,  I  remember,  hardly  took  his  eyes 
off  me  the  whole  evening;  and  as  to  Uncle  Guy,  he  paid 
me  such  compliments,  and  was  in  such  tearing  spirits, 
and  cracked  such  jokes,  and  told  such  stories,  and 
rapped  out  so  many  of  his  funny  old  obsolete  oaths,  that 
the  whole  table  was  in  a  roar,  even  Aunt  Harriet! 
Goodness!  how  pleased  I  was  with  myself  in  my  new 
fine  feathers!  and  the  thought  of  what  I  would  wear  next 
day  pleased  me  even  more.  But  that  is  a  different  mat- 
ter, and  needs  a  little  explaining. 

I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  it  satisfactorily,  but  the 
way  of  it  was  this.  Sophie,  as  I  have  said,  was  no  real 
companion  for  me.  She  was  too  smart  and  grown-up, 
though  in  reality  only  a  year  older  than  me — too  much 
of  the  fashionable  young  lady,  in  fact.  She  rode  beau- 
tifully, but  hated  walking,  and  wore  very  tight  high- 
heeled  shoes.  When  she  did  walk,  she  would  never  go 
off  the  paths  unless  the  grass  was  as  dry  as  cinders,  and 
as  to  climbing  trees,  or  messing  about  in  "Marigold 
Marsh,"  she  simply  wouldn't  do  it;  so  I  soon  gave  up 


INVERSNAID  31 

asking  her.  Besides,  nothing  would  induce  her  to  go  out 
before  luncheon ;  and  at  no  time,  either  before  or  after 
luncheon,  was  she  ever  ready  to  go  out.  She  always  had 
to  go  to  her  room  first,  where  she  stayed  three-quarters 
of  an  hour,  changing  boots  and  stockings  and  skirts  and 
things,  till  one  really  forgot  what  one  wanted  to  go  out 
for. 

Norman  and  Claud  were  generally  shooting  par- 
tridges, or  hunting;  besides,  I  knew  it  would  bore  them 
to  come  with  me,  so  I  never  asked  them.  So  the  end 
of  it  was,  I  used  to  slink  out  quietly  after  breakfast  and 
prowl  about  by  myself,  generally  in  the  Flexham  Woods, 
and  stay  there  till  luncheon  time,  when  I  would  come 
back  with  such  an  appetite  as  made  the  rest  of  them 
stare,  and  caused  Sophie  to  cock  her  pretty  nose  and 
sniff  rather  disdainfully. 

One  morning,  a  little  more  than  a  week  after  my 
arrival,  I  had  lit  a  fine  fire  in  Inversnaid  (more  as  a  mat- 
ter of  duty  and  tradition  than  for  any  other  reason),  and 
I  was  thinking  what  a  dull  matter-of-fact  lot  my  cousins 
were  not  to  come  and  help  me,  when  I  saw  a  man  walk- 
ing through  the  wood  straight  for  my  tree.  He  was  saun- 
tering along,  leisurely  swinging  a  stick  and  whistling,  and 
had  evidently  seen  nothing  of  me  or  of  my  fire  as  yet.  But 
the  fire  was  a  good  one,  and  was  smoking  magnificently, 
so  there  was  no  possibility  that  he  could  pass  it  without 
seeing,  unless  he  was  blind.  I  dropped  quietly  down 
into  the  Banqueting  Hall,  and  awaited  events  with  a 
high-beating  heart.  I  even  tried  to  subdue  the  fire  a 
little  with  the  long  stake  that  did  duty  as  poker,  but  it 
only  made  the  thing  smoke  the  more.  I  could  see  the 
man  plainly  enough,  though  I  knew  that  I  myself  was 
invisible.  He  walked  right  along  the  top  of  the  bank  to 


32  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

which  "the  drawbridge"  stretched.  I  think  he  was 
dreaming,  or  ^making  poetry  or  something,  for  he  never 
noticed  anything  till  he  was  almost  past  the  tree.  "What 
an  old  stupid!"  I  thought. 

Then  suddenly  he  stopped  short  and  began  staring 
up.  I  never  saw  any  one  look  so  astonished.  The  fire 
wasn't  flaming  any  more,  only  smoking  like  forty  fac- 
tories, and  he  couldn't  make  it  out  at  all.  He  walked 
round  and  round  the  tree  several  times,  trying  to  see 
into  the  middle  of  it  (he  might  as  well  have  tried  to  see 
into  the  ground),  and  then  finally  came  back  to  the  top 
of  the  bank,  where  he  had  started.  I  thought  he  was 
going  to  pass  on  and  leave  me  in  peace,  when,  to  my 
horror,  he  swung  himself  on  to  the  drawbridge  and 
began  coming  up!  I  thought  for  a  moment  of  dropping 
down  on  the  far  side  and  running — it  was  not  a  very 
tremendous  drop;  but  while  I  was  thinking,  the  chance 
was  lost,  for  the  man,  who  came  up  twice  as  quick  as  I 
did,  caught  hold  of  some  branches  overhead  and  swung 
himself  lightly  into  the  Banqueting  Hall,  within  a  yard 
of  where  I  stood!  I  shall  never  forget  the  poor  man's 
face.  He  looked  so  absolutely  aghast  that  I  burst  out 
laughing  then  and  there.  I  couldn't  help  it.  And  then 
he  laughed,  too,  and  took  off  his  hat,  and  said  he  must 
apologise  for  disturbing  me  in  the  way  he  had,  but  he 
had  no  idea  the  tree  was  tenanted  by  a  hamadryad. 

"What's  that?"  I  said. 

"A  young  lady  who  lights  fires  in  trees,"  he  answered, 
smiling  so  nicely  that  I  forgot  to  be  frightened  of  him 
any  more. 

"You  nearly  made  me  put  it  out,"  I  said.  "I  tried 
to  smother  it  when  I  saw  you  coming.  Please  get  some 
sticks,  quick." 


INVERSNAID  33 

We  both  scrambled  about  for  fuel,  and  he  began 
breaking  off  some  of  the  smaller  twigs  and  branches. 

"No,  no,"  I  said  severely,  "nothing  tfaat'ft£r00ttflg;, 
please.  There's  any  amount  of  dead  stuff  lying  about,  if 
you  only  look.  Get  round  behind  Sophie's  branch; 
you'll  find  the  woodstack  there,  with  fuel  enough  for  a 
week." 

He  went  round.  It  wasn't  quite  easy,  I  knew.  One 
had  to  tread  on  one  of  the  hedgehogs,  and  make  a  long 
stretch  to  catch  another  with  one's  left  hand.  But  he 
did  it,  and  very  neatly,  too,  and  came  back  with  a 
scratched  face  and  an  armful  of  sticks — small,  big,  and 
medium.  And  we  made  the  biggest  fire  that  ever  was 
seen,  and  climbed  up  my  branch — which  was  to  wind- 
ward— to  be  out  of  the  smoke  and  heat,  and  sat  there 
very  comfortably  for  half  an  hour.  And  then  I  showed 
him  "the  Moat,"  and  "Lake  Superior,"  and  the  "ten- 
acre  field,"  and  the  "look-out  station,"  three  parts  of 
the  way  up  Claud's  branch;  and  the  "potato  patch," 
and  the  "secret  chamber,"  which  was  a  sort  of  cave 
under  two  of  the  branches,  just  beyond  the  woodstack. 
And  he  seemed  to  take  it  all  in,  and  liked  it  very  much, 
and  said  it  was  quite  the  most  wonderful  tree  he  had 
ever  seen,  and  altogether  made  a  very  fair  baby,  though 
he  was  about  three  inches  over  six  foot,  and  quite  ten 
years  older  than  me. 

"Do  you  often  come  here?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "almost  every  day;  but  it  is  dull 
work,  as  none  of  the  others  will  come  with  me." 

At  this  he  raised  his  eyebrows  and  laughed,  and  said 
something  half  to  himself  which  I  didn't  quite  catch. 
We  sat  in  silence  for  a  time,  and  then  he  said: 

"If  I  was  to  be  passing  this  way    again,   and    you 


34  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

happened  to  be  here,  would  you  let  me  act  stoker 
again?" 

"Of  course,"  I  said.  "I  should  be  delighted.  A 
stoker's  just  what  I  want." 

At  which  he  laughed — laughed  till  the  tears  came,  as 
though  I  had  said  one  of  the  wittiest  things  in  the  world. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I  shall  remember  that." 

"Are  you  likely  to  be  passing,  do  you  think?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  I  think  very  likely  indeed,"  he  answered,  with 
his  eyes  smiling  rather  nicely.  He  seemed  very  much 
amused  at  something.  "You  know  I  am  the  Duke's 
agent,  and  I  live  just  outside  the  Slade  Lodge,"  he 
added,  by  way  of  explanation. 

"Oh!"  I  said. 

"And  you,  I  suppose,  are  Miss  de  Metrier,  the 
Squire's  niece?" 

"Yes." 

The  wind  was  blowing  stiffly  from  the  southwest,  and 
brought  the  sound  of  the  servants'  dinner-bell,  ringing 
down  at  the  house. 

"Good  gracious!"  I  cried,  "I  must  be  off.  I  shall 
be  late  for  luncheon." 

"Shall  I  help  you  down?"  he  asked. 

"No!"  I  said,  decidedly;  "stay  where  you  are  till  I 
am  down.  Then  you  can  come." 

I  dropped  down  from  the  two  hedgehogs  that  sprout 
just  beside  the  moat.  I  thought  it  more  dignified,  and 
perhaps  prettier  than  the  drawbridge.  He  followed  me, 
and  we  shook  hands  and  parted. 

After  luncheon  I  asked  Sophie: 

"Who  is  the  Duke's  agent?" 

"Sydney  Grayle,"  she  said;  "he  is  a  sort  of  cousin 
of  his,  you  know.  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  just  curiosity,"  I  said. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  OLD   MANOR    HOUSE 

went  back  to  his  regiment  very  soon,  which 
-*  I  was  sorry  for.  He  was  a  nice  boy.  He  was  a 
cornet  in  the  i$th  Hussars,  then  quartered  at  Shorn- 
cliffe.  Norman  stayed  on,  and  was  very  kind  and  atten- 
tive. Sometimes  I  used  to  feel  positively  ashamed  at 
letting  him  fag  for  me  in  the  way  he  insisted  on  doing. 
I  was  not  used  to  it.  All  my  life  it  had  been  rather  the 
other  way.  And  then,  apart  from  the  question  of  fag- 
ging, he  was  so  embarrassingly  courteous  and  attentive 
and  deferential.  I  didn't  quite  like  it.  It  oppressed 
me. 

We  used  to  ride  every  afternoon — that  is,  Sophie  and 
I  did;  I  in  a  borrowed  habit  of  Sophie's,  and  most  days 
Norman  would  come  with  us.  He  was  very  kind  about 
teaching  me  to  ride,  for  though  the  little  horse  I  rode 
was  as  quiet  as  any  cow,  I  was  as  great  a  John  Gilpin  as 
ever  was,  and  knew  no  more  about  riding  than  a  guards- 
man. Sophie  used  to  be  rather  cross,  I  thought,  when 
Norman  came.  I  suppose  she  felt  out  of  it  to  a  certain 
extent,  for  of  course  the  poor  fellow,  in  his  capacity  of 
riding-master,  had  to  give  most  of  his  attention  to  me; 
and  I  don't  think  she  liked  it.  So  silly! 

One  day  Sophie  and  I  were  riding  alone,  with  a 
groom,  of  course — we  were  never  allowed  to  move  a  yard 
without  a  stupid,  pompous  groom  behind.  We  had  had 

35 


36  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

a  splendid  gallop  across  the  plain,  and  were  riding  slowly 
up  the  green  ride  that  runs  to  the  Slade  Lodge — the 
most  beautiful  ride  in  the  world  it  is — up  a  deep  glade, 
with  giant  trees  on  either  side,  and  bracken  underneath. 
The  trees  were  in  their  most  glorious  autumn  colours, 
for  we  had  had  several  sharp  frosts,  and  the  bracken 
was  also  dying  in  great  splendour,  and  the  little  rabbits 
scurried  about  in  multitudes,  and  seemed  to  be  enjoying 
the  beauty  of  it  all  as  much  as  we  were.  Suddenly  it 
began  to  rain,  softly  at  first,  but  presently  in  much 
bigger  drops,  and  heavier.  We  turned  round  and  started 
to  trot  homewards,  and  as  we  did  so  the  rain,  as  though 
angry  at  our  turning  tail,  began  to  come  down  in  perfect 
sheets. 

"Drat  it!"  said  Sophie,  "we  shall  be  wet  through 
before  we  get  home." 

However,  we  bent  our  heads,  and  pushed  through  it 
as  best  we  could,  the  poor  horses  seeming  to  hate  it  as 
much  as  we  did. 

Presently  Sam,  the  'groom,  came  pounding  up  along- 
side. 

"Beg  pardon,  miss,"  he  said,  touching  his  hat;  "but 
hadn't  we  best  take  shelter  in  the  old  Manor  House? 
The  storm'll  pass  in  half  an  hour  or  so." 

"Of  course,"  said  Sophie.     "Come  on,  Josephine." 

She  spurted  along  for  another  hundred  yards  or  so, 
then,  turning  sharply  to  the  left,  galloped  up  a  kind  of 
cart  track  till  we  came  to  a  house.  The  most  beautiful 
little  old  house  it  was  that  ever  was  seen,  though  I  took 
little  enough  note  of  it  at  the  time,  being  only  too  glad 
to  jump  off  my  horse  and  get  inside  out  of  the  rain;  but 
later  on,  I  got  to  know  the  look  of  it  by  heart.  It  was 
long  and  low,  built  of  yellow  sandstone,  with  mullioned 


THE   OLD   MANOR   HOUSE  37 

diamond-paned  windows,  and  a  long  sloping,  red-tiled 
roof.  There  was  a  lovely  little  garden  round  it,  with  an 
antediluvian  sun-dial,  and  a  fountain,  and  numberless 
yew-trees,  cut  into  peacocks  and  pheasants,  and  things. 
However,  all  this  I  saw  later  on.  At  the  time  I  just 
jumped  off,  and  followed  Sophie  in,  glad  enough  for 
once  that  fat  old  Sam  was  there  to  look  after  the  horses. 
An  old  woman  came  bustling  out  of  the  parlour. 

"Miss  Sophie!"  she  cried,  with  hands  held  up  in  hor- 
ror; "poor  dear!  you  must  be  drowned!  come  in  quick 
and  let  me  dry  you  a  bit.  Sure,  you'll  catch  your  death 
of  cold.  And  this  is  your  cousin?" 

"Yes,  Susan;  this  is  Josephine." 

We  were  well  rubbed  down  with  many  towels,  and  our 
wet  state  groaned  over  with  a  world  of  commiseration, 
and  finally  we  were  put  before  the  fire,  like  bits  of  toast, 
to  dry. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  storm  gathered  round  blacker 
than  ever,  and  it  rained  as  though  it  meant  lasting 
through  the  night.  The  interior  of  the  house  was  no 
less  perfect  in  its  way  than  the  outside — not  that  there 
was  any  attempt  at  smart  furnishing;  the  chairs  and 
tables  were  of  the  commonest,  but  the  rooms  and  the 
staircase  were  panelled  with  old  oak  up  to  the  very 
moulded  ceilings,  and  the  chimney-piece  had  clearly 
been  carved  by  a  master  hand.  A  wonderful  old  house! 
I  thought;  and  I  had  never  dreamt  even  of  its  existence 
in  the  park!  but  then  there  was  room  enough  in  Selworth 
Park  for  many  hidden  things. 

But  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  all  was  the  old 
woman  herself.  She  was  a  handsome  old  lady,  almost 
beautiful,  with  her  snow-white  hair  and  dark  soft  eyes. 
I  found  myself  staring  at  her  perpetually,  and  every  time 


38  THE   PERILS   OF  JOSEPHINE 

I  looked  up,  there  were  those  dark  grey  eyes  fixed  upon 
me  so  immovably,  and  with  such  open  enquiry,  that  I 
grew  quite  fidgety  and  uncomfortable. 

"So  you  are  Miss  Josephine?"  she  said  at  length. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  laughing;  "I  am  Josephine." 

"Do  you  know,  my  dear,  that  I  was  your  father's 
nurse?" 

"  You  were!"  I  cried.  "Why,  you  are  not  old 
enough."  For  father  would  have  been  fifty  if  he  had 
lived. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am,"  she  said,  looking  quite  pleased. 
"You  see  I  was  only  seventeen  or  so  when  I  took  him 
up." 

"Oh!  how  exciting!"  I  cried.  "Do  tell  me  about  him. 
What  was  he  like?" 

"Well,  poor  dear,  he  never  was  much  to  look  at,  as 
you  know — a  little,  white,  spiritless  thing,  and  crippled 
with  that  shrunken  leg  from  the  day  he  was  born.  And 
then  there  were  his  eyes,  of  course." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  I  said.  Even  I  could  remember  his 
eyes. 

"But  a  little  angel  from  first  to  last,  and  through 
everything,"  she  said.  "God  bless  him,  poor  soul,  and 
forgive  us  all  our  trespasses." 

I  had  nothing  to  say;  she  seemed  deeply  moved. 

"And  to  think  of  your  being  his  daughter!  Well, 
well,  it  does  seem  strange." 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  he  was  so  small  and  shrunken,  poor  thing; 
but  your  mother,  of  course,  was  a  splendid  creature." 

"Tell  me  about  her,"  I  said. 

"I  only  saw  her  once — a  month  or  so  after  they  were 
married.  She  was  the  most  splendid  creature  I  ever 


THE   OLD   MANOR   HOUSE  39 

saw,  taller  even  than  you,  and  as  full  of  life  as  a  young 
race-horse.  And  then  to  think  of  her  going  off  the  way 
she  did." 

"But  she  was  notpret/y,  was  she?"  I  asked. 

"Perhaps  not  pretty  in  the  way  some  folks  talk  of  it — 
not  one  of  your  rule-of-thumb  hair-dresser-shop  beauties, 
you  know;  but  a  woman  to  send  men  clean  off  their 
heads,  if  /know  anything  of  the' world. " 

I  saw  Sophie  go  very  red ;  I  think  she  thought  the 
old  woman  was  talking  at  her. 

"Mamma  always  says  she  was  common-looking,"  she 
said,  with  a  little  toss  of  her  head. 

It  was  my  turn  to  go  red  then.  I  was  speechless 
with  rage.  But  the  old  woman  broke  in: 

"No,  no,  Miss  Sophie,  anything  but  common-looking; 
indeed,  it  was  a  most  uncommon  face;  not  aristocratic- 
looking,  of  course,  like  the  De  Metriers — who  is?  but  a 
sweet  face,  and  a  lovable,  as  ever  I  saw." 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  for  a  time.  Sophie,  I 
could  see,  was  very  angry,  and  so  was  I — furious.  What 
right  had  she  to  say  such  things  about  my  mother?  I 
could  have  said  things  about  hers  if  I  had  liked — finniky 
old  mummy!  We  both  looked  out  of  the  window.  It 
was  pelting.  There  was  no  chance  of  moving  yet. 

It  was  our  hostess  who  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Is  Mr.  Norman  at  the  Abbey  now?"  she  asked. 
They  always  called  it  the  Abbey — the  people  about. 
But  my  cousins  themselves  called  it  just  Selworth  House. 

"Yes,  he's  there,"  Sophie  answered,  sulkily. 

"Ah,  he's  a  true  De  Metrier,  from  top  to  toe;  that 
he  is.  The  handsomest  young  man  I  ever  clapped  eyes 
on — better  lookipg  even  than  the  'old  Squire,'  and  he 
was  hard  to  beat.  No  wonder  half  the  girls  in  London 


40  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

are  mad  about  him,  and  such  a  fortune,  too!  such  an 
inheritance!  The  girl  that  catches  him'll  be  a  lucky  one." 

She  fixed  her  eyes  rigidly  on  my  face.  I  was  star- 
ing into  the  red  embers  of  the  fire,  but  I  felt  the  mag- 
netism of  her  fixed  gaze,  and  looked  up. 

"Yes,"  she  added,  reflectively,  "the  gin  that  catches 
Norman  de  Metrier  will  be  the  luckiest  girl  in  all  the 
world;  and  when  Susan  Beddington  says  that,  she  knows 
what  she  is  talking  about."  Then  the  next  moment,  and 
in  the  same  breath,  "God  forgive  us  all  for  our  sins!" 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  Josephine  ought  to  try  and 
catch  him,"  Sophie  cried,  with  a  high-pitched  laugh. 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  said  the  old  woman,  "neither 
more  nor  less.  Whoever  gets  Mr.  Norman  will  be  a 
lucky  girl.  He  is  a  gallant  young  fellow,  and  would 
make  a  good  husband." 

"I  think  we  had  better  be  going,"  Sophie  said.  "It 
is  not  going  to  stop,  and  there  is  no  use  in  waiting  any 
longer." 

I  agreed  thoroughly.  It  was  not  raining  heavily,  and 
the  situation  was  uncomfortable. 

As  Sam  was  putting  Sophie  on  to  her  horse,  I  felt  my 
arm  clutched  from  behind,  and  a  voice  whispered  in  my 
ear,  "If  ever  you  want  a  friend,  come  to  Susan  Bedding- 
ton." 

We  trotted  along  briskly  home,  the  rain  beating  in  our 
faces.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  between  us  till  we  were 
close  to  the  house.  Then  Sophie  pushed  up  close  along- 
side of  me,  and  said:  "I  am  so  sorry,  Josephine,  for 
saying  what  I  did.  It  was  horrid  of  me.  " 

I  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  If  we  had  been  on  foot  I 
should  have  kissed  her;  as  it  was,  I  laughed  rather  awk- 
wardly, and  said,  "Oh,  it  was  nothing." 


THE   OLD   MANOR   HOUSE  41 

"But  it  was,"  she  said,  "and  I  was  a  pig  and  a  beast 
to  say  it." 

I  said  nothing,  but  when  we  were  in  the  house,  and 
in  the  long  passage  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  I  flung  my 
sopping  arms  round  her,  and  laid  my  dripping,  draggled 
head  against  hers,  and  mumbled  forgiveness  and  ever- 
lasting affection  in  her  ear.  And  whether  there  was  any 
crying  or  not,  it  is  hard  to  say,  for  both  our  faces  were 
already  wet  and  glistening  with  the  rain.  However,  in 
any  case,  everything  was  all  right. 


CHAPTER  V 

FATHER   BOYLE 

T^HE  De  Metriers  had  always  been  Catholics.  I  my- 
•*•  self  had  been  brought  up  a  strict  Catholic  as  long 
as  my  father  was  alive.  When,  however,  his  sudden 
death  left  me  an  eight-year-old  orphan,  absolutely  desti- 
tute, there  had  been  much  debate  in  the  family  as  to 
what  was  to  be  done  with  my  poor  little  lanky  body. 
One  wanted  one  thing,  and  one  another,  after  the  man- 
ner of  mankind,  and  while  they  were  disputing,  and  I 
was  starving,  my  mother's  two  maiden  sisters  stepped 
in  and  very  quietly  carried  me  off  to  Chelmsford.  At 
first  this  had  caused  a  good  deal  of  correspondence,  and, 
I  believe,  some  unpleasantness,  but  in  the  end  it  was 
accepted  by  all  parties  as  the  most  comfortable  solution, 
and  I  was  left  in  peace  where  I  was.  But  the  objec- 
tions of  the  Selworth  faction  were  very  quickly  justified, 
for  within  one  short  twelve  months  I  had  left  the  Church 
of  Rome,  and  was  a  regular  attendant  at  Mr.  Baggally's 
mournful  ministrations  in  the  parish  church.  I  think  it 
was  partly  this  that  made  my  uncle  and  aunt  wipe  me 
out  of  their  lives  for  ten  long  years.  Apostasy  is  a  thing 
beyond  the  pale. 

Shortly  after  my  conversion,  I  remember  a  fat  gentle- 
man, in  a  black  coat,  arriving  one  day  to  see  me.  He 
asked  for  a  private  interview,  but  this  my  aunts  sternly 
declined.  They  were  both  trembling  with  agitation,  I 

42 


FATHER   BOYLE  43 

remember,  very  pale,  but  with  tight  mouths,  and  battle 
blazing  in  their  eyes.  So  we  all  gathered  in  the  little 
front  parlour,  and  my  two  aunts  sat  bolt  upright  on  stiff- 
backed  chairs,  and  I  sat  on  the  very  edge  of  mine,  with 
my  long  white  stockings  tucked  under  me,  and  my  feet 
twisted  round  the  front  legs.  The  fat  gentleman  stared 
hard  at  me  for  some  minutes,  and  then  said  in  an  odd, 
rolling  kind  of  voice: 

"Child,  is  it  true  that  you  have  been  seduced  from 
the  arm's  of  the  Church?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  said,  frankly. 

"Am  I  to  understand,"  he  went  on,  with  his  voice 
swelling  like  distant  thunder,  "that  you  have  renounced 
the  faith  of  your  father,  and  your  father's  father — the 
sweet,  pure  faith  in  which  you  yourself  were  brought  up 
from  infancy?" 

"Yes,  sir."     This  very  low. 

"Josephine  de  Metrier, "  he  said,  and  now  his  voice 
sank  to  a  great  round  whisper,  "have  you  realised  that 
this  step  means  ruin  for  you  in  this  world  and  eternal 
damnation  in  the  next?" 

"Mr.  Boyle,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  in  a  high,  shaky  voice, 
and  deathly  pale,  "if  you  talk  in  that  strain  I  shall  have 
to  take  the  child  away,  and  request  you  to  leave  the 
house." 

"Very  well,  madam,"  said  the  priest.  "I  am  in  your 
hands,  and  may  God  forgive  you  for  the  wreck  of  this 
child's  soul.  I  have  but  one  more  question  to  ask  her. 
How  old  are  you,  Josephine?" 

"Ten,  sir." 

"Then  you  are  old  enough  to  understand.  You  have 
sinned  greatly,  but  the  Church  is  merciful,  and  is  always 
ready  to  receive  the  penitent  with  open  arms.  If  you 


44  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

will  repent  of  your  sins,  and  come  back  to  the  faith  of 
your  fathers,  I  am  authorised  by  your  dear  uncle  to  offer 
you  a  permanent  home  at  Selworth,  and  all  the  unlim- 
ited pleasures  that  go  with  such  a  home — ponies  and  car- 
riages and  dogs,  smart  little  frocks  and  beautiful  rooms, 
and  such  food  and  wines — such  food  I  should  say  [this 
with  a  hasty  cough],  such  exquisite  food,  as  seldom  falls 
to  the  lot  of  man  or  woman  in  this  poor  sinful  world." 

He  spoke  with  great  feeling,  especially  towards  the 
end  of  his  speech.  Then  suddenly,  quick  as  [thought, 
his  brow  lowered,  and  his  voice  grew  very  stern. 

"And  if  you  refuse,  if  you  persist  in  your  evil,  wicked 
courses,  you  shall  live  and  die  a  beggar,  and  among  beg- 
garly surroundings." 

He  shut  his  mouth  with  a  snap,  and  glared  at  me 
across  the  table.  I  saw  Aunt  Maria's  mouth  open  and 
shut  three  or  four  times,  as  though  she  were  struggling 
to  speak,  but  no  sound  came.  Aunt  Emily  just  sat  and 
mopped  her  brow  feebly.  There  was  a  dead  silence  for 
some  minutes.  I  sat  fidgeting  my  feet  on  the  floor,  and 
twisting  the  corner  of  my  frock. 

"Well,  child?"  he  said,  "think  well  before  you  answer; 
think  of  the  ponies  and  the  clothes — and  the  food." 

I  felt  very  much  inclined  to  cry.  The  priest  never 
took  his  eyes  from  my  face,  but  my  aunts  looked  straight 
and  fixedly  before  them. 

"Please,  sir,"  I  said,  "I  don't  want  anything  but  to 
be  left  here  with  Aunt  Maria  and  Aunt  Emily." 

"You  are  sure,  child?"  The  voice  once  more  was 
growing  thunderous. 

"Quite  sure,  sir."     I  felt  braver  now  I  had  said  it. 

"You  hear,  sir?"  said  Aunt  Maria,  pushing  back  her 
chair. 


FATHER   BOYLE  45 

"Yes,  I  hear,"  thundered  the  priest,  rising  to  his 
feet.  "You  have  indeed  thrown  the  meshes  of  Satan 
tight  around  this  poor  castaway.  Her  perdition  be  on 
your  heads.  I  shake  the  dust  of  this  house  from  my  feet. " 

He  stalked  out  of  the  room  with  great  dignity,  and 
next  moment  we  saw  him  pass  slowly  up  the  street. 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!"  cried  Aunt  Maria,  and 
then  these  two  dear,  kind  souls  must  needs  break  at  one 
and  the  same  moment  into  floods  of  tears,  and  fall  upon 
my  neck  and  hug  me,  and  half  smother  me  with  kisses, 
till,  from  sheer  sympathy,  and  without  in  the  least  know- 
ing why,  I,  too,  cried  as  I  had  never  cried  before.  So 
we  were  all  very  happy  that  evening. 

But  for  eight  years  there  came  from  Selworth  Abbey 
neither  letter  nor  message  nor  any  more  acknowledg- 
ment than  if  I  had  been  dead.  Then  in  a  flash  came  the 
invitation  to  stay  for  the  greater  part  of  a  year!  No 
wonder  we  gasped  when  we  read  it. 

"Be  strong,  my  darling  child,  and  faithful,"  were 
Aunt  Maria's  last  words.  "They  will  try  hard  to  per- 
vert you." 

But  they  did  not.  Never,  directly  or  indirectly,  was 
the  slightest  pressure  brought  to  bear  on  me.  They 
even  offered  me  a  carriage  on  wet  days  to  take  me  to 
Benton  Church.  Father  Boyle,  or  Father  Terence  as 
they  called  him — my  old  friend  of  Chelmsford  memory — 
was  still  chaplain  at  Selworth;  and  every  morning  at 
half-past  eight,  and  three  times  every  Sunday,  would  he 
hold  service  in  the  private  chapel  beyond  the  Long  Gal- 
lery. He  was  fatter  than  ever,  and  had  little  pig-eyes, 
and  an  endless  fund  of  humourous  anecdote.  I  never 
quite  liked  him.  Perhaps  the  memory  of  that  terrible 
interview  in  the  front  parlour  still  haunted  me  a  little — 


46  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

I  don't  know;  but  whatever  it  was,  I  always  felt  uneasy 
in  the  man's  presence.  And  then  he  used  to  call  me 
Miss  Joe — from  the  very  first  day — which  I  hated.  My 
uncle  always  called  me  Joe,  and  from  him  it  was  all 
right;  and  after  a  time  the  others,  too,  got  into  the  way 
of  it,  finding  my  full  patronymic  rather  cumbersome, 
but  Father  Terence  started  it  the  first  day — such  imper- 
tinence! Aunt  Harriet,  by  the  way,  could  never  bring 
herself  to  call  me  anything  but  Josephine,  pronounced 
French  fashion,  and  at  first  would  even  wrinkle  her 
brows  and  pretend  to  look  the  picture  of  perplexity  when 
my  uncle  referred  in  any  way  to  "Joe." 

Well,  to  go  back  to  Father  Terence.  He  had  one 
good  point,  for  which  I  almost  forgave  him  everything — 
even  the  damnation  to  which  he  had  assigned  me  eight 
years  before.  He  could  make  the  most  heavenly  music. 
Whether  with  hands  or  voice,  it  was  the  same,  but  the 
voice  it  was,  of  course,  that  moved  one.  He  had  what 
Aunt  Harriet  called  les  larmes  dans  la  voix.  Where  he 
got  it  from  was  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world,  for 
there  was  no  more  music  in  his  face  than  in  a  soup-plate. 
But  his  voice  in  that  Great  Hall  was  like  a  thing  from 
heaven!  I  liked  to  crouch  down  behind  the  balustrade 
of  the  Upper  Gallery  and  listen  to  him  from  there.  It 
spoilt  the  illusion  so  if  one  saw  him.  He  could  sing 
anything — Handel's  oratorios,  scraps  from  operas,  or  the 
simplest  ballads.  That  was  the  time  of  Mrs.  Popham's 
lovely  little  unpublished  songs.  He  was  very  fond  of 
these — women's  songs  though  they  were. 

"  For  though  the  wild  fir-trees  were  creaking, 

And  ghosts  were  in  every  part, 
I  found  what  I  long  had  been  seeking — 
A  heart  I  could  take  to  my  heart." 


FATHER   BOYLE  47 

The  pathos  of  his  voice  would  pierce  my  very  soul, 
and  I  would  shiver  like  a  leaf  behind  the  gallery  rails, 
brimful  of  the  emotion  that  turns  all  of  us  to  fools,  and 
then  by  chance  I  would  catch  sight  of  the  singer's  puffy 
white  face  through  the  rails,  and  simply  shake  with 
laughter  for  pity  of  the  poor  heart  that  he  had  found. 

Such  was  Father  Terence  when  I  first  knew  him — a 
man  of  about  forty,  I  suppose,  and  a  king  in  Selworth 
Abbey  if  [ever  there  was  one.  He  was  the  only  one  in 
the  house  that  could  make  Uncle  Guy  do  as  he  chose. 
How  he  did  it  nobody  knew.  The  methods  were  not 
flaunted  in  public,  but  whatever  he  decreed  came  to 
pass;  there  was  no  doubt  of  that. 

He  had  all  his  meals  with  us,  and  was  excellent  com- 
pany, and  ate  and  drank  as  much  as  any  other  two;  and 
indeed  there  were  times  when  the  effect  of  this  was  very 
plain  in  his  manner.  But  none  of  the  others  saw  it;  or, 
if  they  did,  saw  in  it  nothing  beyond  the  prescriptive 
droit  de  pretre.  For  at  Selworth  Abbey  Father  Boyle, 
like  the  king,  could  do  no  wrong.  My  uncle  would 
growl  at  my  aunt,  and  my  aunt  would  snap  back  acid 
rejoinders,  and  Sophie,  Norman,  and  Claud  would  spar 
with  all  the  frank  vocabulary  of  youth;  but  no  one  ever 
questioned  Father  Boyle's  doings,  either  to  his  face  or 
behind  his  back.  The  king  could  do  no  wrong! 

Even  the  glaring  vulgarity  of  the  man  never  seemed 
to  grate  on  them,  not  even  on  the  starched  gentility  of 
Aunt  Harriet,  who  would  shut  her  eyes  and  shiver  every 
time  my  uncle  swore,  which  was  pretty  often.  But  for 
my  own  part,  I  am  afraid  I  never  did  like  the  man,  only 
when  he  was  sitting  at  the  organ  in  the  chapel,  or  at  the 
piano  in  the  Great  Hall. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CONCERNING   THE  APPOINTMENT   OF  A   STOKER 

''•"HE  day  after  our  ducking,  Sophie  had  a  slight  cold 
•*•  and  stayed  in  bed.  She  was  "delicate,"  and  had 
to  be  taken  great  care  of,  at  least  so  I  was  always  told. 
Aunt  Harriet  even  seemed  quite  put  out  with  me  because 
it  had  rained  while  we  were  out  riding;  as  if  I  could  have 
helped  it! 

"Of  course,  it  matters  nothing  to  you,  Josephine," 
she  said,  fretfully.  "I  should  imagine  you  had  never 
had  a  cold  in  your  life,  but  you  should  bear  in  mind  that 
your  cousin  is  not  so  strong." 

I  believe  she  thought  health  a  sign  of  low  breeding 
and  vulgarity;  she  always  talked  as  if  she  did. 

So  the  doctor  came,  and  stayed  half  an  hour,  and 
spoke  comforting  words,  and  went  away,  leaving  an 
atmosphere  of  hope  behind  him,  and  a  promise  to  come 
next  day,  and  to  send  up  a  bottle  of  medicine  in  the 
course  of  the  afternoon.  And  then,  as  a  sop  to  his  con- 
science, he  drove  round  three  miles  to  Sillingham  and 
saw  Mrs.  Black's  consumptive  daughter,  and  left  a 
blanket  and  a  bottle  of  port  behind  him.  I  heard  of  this 
afterwards  from  Tom  Beddington. 

So,  all  that  morning  I  stayed  in  Sophie's  room,  read- 
ing and  talking.  She  looked  very  well,  and  remarkably 
pretty,  with  pink  ribbons  in  her  hair,  and  in  the  sleeves 
and  throat  of  her  night-dress.  When  Doctor  Watson 

48 


APPOINTMENT   OF   A   STOKER  49 

arrived,  I  left  her  and  went  to  the  schoolroom,  where  I 
amused  myself  strumming  on  the  piano.  Sophie  and 
I  had  this  room  to  ourselves.  It  was  a  huge,  bare  room 
on  the  first  floor,  over  the  billiard-room,  and  so  far  away 
from  everything  that  we  could  make  as  much  noise  as 
we  liked — or  rather  I  could ;  Sophie  never  made  a  noise. 

Well,  as  I  say,  I  was  trying  to  play  a  waltz,  with  the 
pedal  down,  and  was  producing  horrible  sounds,  when 
Norman  came  in. 

"I  thought  it  must  be  you,"  he  said.  "I  was  down 
in  the  billiard-room  knocking  the  balls  about." 

"I  suppose  you  recognised  my  delicate  touch?"  I 
said,  laughing. 

"I  like  to  hear  people  play  with  confidence,"  he 
said. 

"False  confidence,"  I  suggested. 

"Nonsense,  you  play  very  well.  Are  you  going  to 
ride  this  afternoon,  Josephine?" 

"I  don't  suppose  so,"  I  said.  "Sophie's  in  bed  with 
a  cold." 

"But  you  and  I  could  go." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  order  the  horses  for  three  o'clock, 
shall  I?" 

"All  right." 

I  was  still  sitting  on  the  music-stool,  half  slewed 
round  towards  the  door.  Norman  came  forward  a  few 
steps,  and  produced  something  from  behind  his  back — a 
long  thing  done  up  in  tissue  paper,  or  silver  paper,  as 
we  used  to  call  it  then. 

"What's  that?"  I  said. 

"A  little  present  I've  got  for  you." 

"Oh,  how  nice!     Let  me  look  at  it!" 


50  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

It  was  a  tortoise  shell  whip — such  a  beauty ! — with  a 
gold  mounting,  on  which  he  had  engraved,  "Josephine 
from  Norman." 

"How lovely!"  I  said.  "It  is  good  of  you,  Norman." 

"Do  you  like  it?"  he  said. 

"Of  course  I  do.     Why,  it's  lovely!" 

"I'm  so  glad,"  he  said,  coming  nearer,  and  smiling. 
"I  think  you  might  give  me  a  kiss  for  it,  Joe." 

He  had  never  called  me  Joe  before.  I  made  a  men- 
tal note  of  the  fact. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  I  said,  "naturally." 

So  he  took  it — freely.  It  was  a  new  experience,  as  I 
had  long  since  knocked  off  the  family  embrace  that  had 
taken  me  so  by  surprise  on  my  first  arrival.  Such  things 
are  easily  done,  when  one  has  to  do  with  gentlemen — 
and  the  De  Metriers,  whatever  else  they  may  have  been, 
were  all  gentlemen.  But  it  is  not  so  easily  done  without 
comment,  especially  from  a  man  like  Uncle  Guy.  He 
noticed  the  omission  from  the  moment  I  introduced  it, 
and  commented  on  it  loudly  and  frankly,  after  his  man- 
ner. 

"Damme!  little  Joe,"  he  would  say,  "you  may  shy 
and  back  and  rear  from  the  boys  as  much  as  you  will, 
but  you  mustn't  try  such  tricks  with  your  old  uncle.  I'm 
the  irreducible  minimum,  you  know." 

"What  does  that  mean?"  I  said. 

"Well,  in  this  case  it  means  an  old  fool,  "he  answered, 
chuckling,  "a  doddering  old  fool!" 

However,  this  is  all  by  the  way. 

Norman  took  his  embrace,  liberally,  as  I  say,  and 
then  we  both  stood  apart  and  felt,  and  I  am  sure  looked, 
rather  idiotic. 

I  took  refuge  in  the  whip. 


APPOINTMENT   OF   A   STOKER  51 

"It  h  a  beauty!"  I  said. 

"Yes,  it  is  pretty,"  he  said,  "but  not  nearly  pretty 
enough  for  you,  little  Joe." 

Little  Joe,  indeed !    I  am  sure  I  was  as  tall  as  he  was. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked,  trying  to  look  imbe- 
cile, and,  I  expect,  succeeding. 

"I  mean,"  he  said,  "that  nothing  is  pretty  enough 
for  you." 

"My  goodness!"  I  cried,  "there  goes  the  luncheon 
bell.  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  I  must  go  and  wash 
my  hands." 

"Then  I'll  order  the  horses  for  three?"  he  said. 

"Yes!"  I  shouted  from  half-way  down  the  passage. 

We  had  a  delightful  ride.  Norman  was  charming. 
Coming  home,  we  rode  almost  under  the  very  branches 
of  Inversnaid,  and  I  was  so  grateful  to  him  for  giving 
me  the  whip,  that  I  all  but  told  him  all  about  it,  and  was 
on  the  point  of  asking  him  to  come  there  with  me  next 
day.  However,  I  did  not.  I  think  I  was  half  afraid  to; 
I  thought  he  might  laugh  at  me.  In  fact,  I  had  kept 
Inversnaid  a  deep,  dark  secret  from  every  one  at  Sel- 
worth  ever  since  I  found  that  Sophie  was  inclined  to 
turn  up  her  little  nose  at  it.  There  was  another  reason, 
too,  why  I  didn't  ask  Norman. 

The  truth  is — the  honest,  plain,  downright,  rather- 
to-be-ashamed-of  truth — that  Mr.  Grayle  had  already 
been  five  times  to  Inversnaid.  He  said  the  Duke's  estate 
business  was  always  taking  him  that  way.  I  suppose 
there  must  have  been  some  outlying  bit  of  the  Duke's 
property  lying  the  other  side  of  Selworth,  for  Ashby  lay, 
of  course,  quite  the  other  way.  However,  that  was  his 
business.  He  had  come  five  times,  as  I  say,  and  offered 
himself  as  stoker;  and  a  splendid  stoker  he  made,  flying 


53  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

about  all  over  the  tree  like  a  lamplighter,  and  I  honestly 
confess  I  was  always  a  little  bit  disappointed  when  he 
did  not  come;  it  was  so  dull  all  alone.  So  I  used  to 
look  rather  anxiously  for  the  tall  figure  striding  through 
the  beech  trees.  And  when  he  did  come,  the  talk,  and 
the  whole  talk,  would  be  of  the  fire  and  the  "Moat"  and- 
the  other  treasures  of  the  tree,  including  our  own  respec- 
tive branches  (for  I  had  given  him  a  temporary  lease  of 
Claud's,  who  was  away);  and  if  the  wood  happened  to 
be  wet,  and  the  fire  showed  symptoms  of  collapse,  we 
would  scurry  about  all  over  the  tree  looking  for  dry 
twigs  as  though  the  keeping  alight  of  that  fire  was  the 
only  thing  worth  considering  in  the  whole  world.  And, 
wet  or  dry,  whether  the  fire  burned  willingly  or  not,  our 
talk  was  never  other  than  the  talk  of  five-year-old  chil- 
dren, honestly. 

So,  all  these  things  considered,  I  saw  no  reason  to 
say  anything  about  my  stoker  at  Selworth.  Even  before 
he  had  found  me  that  first  day,  I  had  kept  my  own  coun- 
sel about  the  old  tree  and  my  ridiculous  leaning  towards 
it.  It  is  such  a  bore  being  laughed  at.  And  now,  of 
course,  if  they  learnt  about  Mr.  Grayle,  they  would  be 
perfectly  certain  to  laugh  at  both  of  us  as  two  of  the 
biggest  babies  that  had  ever  left  school.  So  I  said 
nothing.  I  couldn't  give  the  poor  man  away;  it  would 
have  been  too  mean.  And  I  did  not  invite  Norman  to 
accompany  me  next  morning.  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
the  duties  of  stoker  would  not  sit  comfortably  upon  him. 

All  the  same,  we  had  a  splendid  ride,  and  came  back 
in  a  fine  glow,  having  raced  home  for  a  mile  across  "the 
Plain." 

"Well,  young  people,"  said  Uncle  Guy  at  dinner, 
"what  sort  of  a  ride  did  you  have,  eh?" 


APPOINTMENT   OF   A   STOKER  53 

"Glorious!"  I  said.  "We  went  pretty  near  to  the 
far  end  of  the  park  at  Ashby. " 

"And  how  did  the  old  Pasha  behave?' 

"Like  an  angel!  He  only  shied  six  times  the  whole 
while." 

'    "We  must  find  you  something  better  to  ride  soon. 
He's  too  heavy  and  slow  for  you." 

"Oh,  no!  he's  an  old  dear!     I  love  him!" 

"By  the  way,"  said  Uncle  Guy,  across  the  table  to 
my  aunt,  "talking  of  Ashby,  I  have  had  a  letter  from 
young  Grayle  about  the  Mill  Hanger  Farm.  The  Duke 
wants  to  buy  it." 

"Well,  I  should  let  nim  want,"  she  said.  "Why 
should  we  sell  land?" 

"No  reason  at  all,  my  dear,  of  course — no  reason  at 
all,  except  to  oblige  the  Duke.  It's  about  the  shoot- 
ing, you  know — cuts  into  one  of  their  beats  in  an  awk- 
ward way.  Grayle  says  he  would  either  buy  or  exchange 
for  one  of  his  farms  on  the  Benton  side." 

"Well,  I  should  tell  Mr.  Grayle  it  is  impossible.  Why 
should  you  lose  a  good  farm,  and  a  good  tenant,  and 
get  goodness  knows  what  in  its  place?  What  do  you 
say,  Father?" 

"Faith,  I  entirely  agree  with  your  ladyship,"  said 
his  Reverence,  draining  a  glass  of  port,  and  smacking 
his  lips  loudly.  "If  it's  only  a  shooting  question,  the 
matter  could  surely  be  arranged  some  other  way." 

"Of  course  it  could,"  said  uncle,  "of  course  it  could. 
I  don't  want  to  sell  anything.  Gad!  no — not  come  to 
that  yet,  thank  God!  I'll  write  and  tell  Grayle." 

"Who  is  Mr.  Grayle?"  I  asked,  with  great  innocence. 
(Sophie  was  not  there.) 

"Grayle?"    said   uncle.     "Why,    he's    the   agent  at 


54  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

Ashby.  Capital  chap,  too — good  shot — good  man  to 
hounds — no  better  in  the  country." 

"Oh!"  I  said. 

"He  is  Lord  Delamaine's  youngest  son,"  Aunt  Har- 
riet explained.  She  had  the  whole  peerage  at  her  fingers' 
ends,  and  was  fond  of  the  subject.  "They  are  absolutely 
ruined,  you  know,  and  the  Duke  took  on  young  Grayle 
as  a  kind  of  charity.  They  are  connected,  you  know — 
distantly;  the  Duchess  was  first  cousin  to  Lady  Dela- 
maine.  He  has  not  a  farthing  in  the  world,  poor  fellow, 
beyond  what  the  Duke  gives  him;  but,  I  believe,  he  does 
very  well." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  uncle,  "first-rate  agent — wish  I'd 
got  as  good  a  one — damme,  yes — old  Quayle's  as  slow  as 
a  church — too  long  in  the  tooth,  poor  chap!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

MRS.    BEDDINGTON    GROWS   INTERESTING 

T  1 7"HAT  times  those  were  in  the  autumn  of  that  year! 
^  *  The  days  were  always  too  short,  and  the  nights 
too  long,  and  as  to  bed,  it  was  a  sheer  waste  of  life. 
The  moment  the  grey  dawn  began  to  glimmer  round  the 
edges  of  my  blinds,  I  would  be  out  of  bed,  and  in  my 
blue  flannel  dressing-gown  would  sit  at  the  open  window, 
and  form  plans  for  the  day.  Not  that  any  great  plans 
were  needed.  The  mere  joy  of  existing  at  Selworth  was 
enough.  But  I  liked  to  sit  in  my  window  and  drink  in 
the  cool,  damp  air,  and  watch  my  old  friends,  the  cock- 
pheasants,  strutting  about  among  the  beds,  and  listen  to 
the  blackbirds  and  the  robins  piping  their  autumn  songs. 
I  always  wondered  if  they  could  sing  before  their  first 
worm.  Father  Terence  couldn't  sing  a  note  before 
breakfast;  he  would  tell  you  so  frankly. 

I  got  to  love  my  little  panelled  room — not  that  it  was 
particularly  little,  rather  the  reverse — and  everything  in 
it;  the  old-fashioned  rosebud  chintz,  and  the  jugs  and 
basins  with  the  blue  crinkly  ribbon  round  the  edge,  and 
Maurice  over  the  chimney-piece — wicked  Maurice,  with 
his  haughty  clear-cut  features,  and  cold,  supercilious 
smile,  and  the  dark  eyes  that  followed  one  about  the 
room.  I  never  saw  a  more  living  picture  than  that;  it 
was  really  quite  embarrassing  at  times;  it  was  so  appall- 
ingly human.  I  could  never  believe  Maurice  was  so  bad 

55 


56  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

as  they  made  out.  There  was  nothing  bad  about  the 
face ;  it  was  rather  a  kind  face,  in  fact.  Then  there  was 
a  big  armchair,  and  a  sofa  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  both 
covered  with  chintz,  and  an  oak  screen,  with  a  pleated 
chintz  centre,  and  a  funny  little  shelf  at  the  top  of  it 
that  one  could  hook  up,  I  suppose  to  put  one's  candle  on. 

My  room  faced  east,  and  when  the  mornings  were 
clear — as  they  so  often  are,  whatever  happens  after- 
wards— the  first  straight  rays  of  the  sun  would  come 
shooting  in,  lighting  up  Maurice's  legs,  below  the  knee, 
and  bringing  the  rosebuds  on  the  chintz  to  life.  And 
outside,  the  same  sun  would  paint  the  red  dropping 
leaves  of  the  beeches  and  the  chestnuts  behind  the  bal- 
ustrade such  gorgeous  colours,  and  would  make  the  dew 
glisten  so  enchantingly  upon  the  grass,  that  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  have  my  bath  cold,  and  to  get  into 
my  clothes  as  quick  as  could  be,  and  down  the  little 
turret  stair  into  the  garden.  This  happened  most  morn- 
ings, except  when  it  rained. 

Then,  after  breakfast,  as  often  as  not,  I  would  go  to 
Inversnaid — beloved  Inversnaid!  They  used  often  to 
ask  me  where  I  went,  and  I  would  say:  "Oh,  I  go  as  a 
rule  to  the  Flexham  Woods;  I  like  the  trees  there." 

Then,  after  a  time,  Norman  used  to  offer  to  come 
with  me,  which  was  tiresome,  but  I  couldn't  well  refuse. 
However,  I  always  took  him  the  other  way,  down  towards 
the  Greystoke  Lodge,  or  round  the  lake,  and  sometimes 
I  made  him  row  me  about  on  the  lake  while  I  trolled  for 
pike,  which,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  I  never  caught.  And 
once  I  even  initiated  him  into  the  mysteries  of  Marigold 
Marsh,  with  its  sluices,  and  hydraulic  pump,  and  en- 
trancing little  water  cuts,  and,  chiefest  of  all,  the 
entrance  to  Dante's  Inferno,  which,  as  every  well- 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  GROWS  INTERESTING    57 

informed  person  knows,  is  to  be  found  in  Marigold  Marsh 
and  nowhere  else,  under  a  brick  and  mortar  arch  that 
burrows  into  the  embankment  that  keeps  the  lake  in  its 
place. 

"  In  the  midway  of  this  our  mortal  life 
I  found  me  in  a  lonely  wood  astray." 

That  wood  was  in  Selworth  Park.  Norman  had  never 
heard  of  it — never  heard  that  this  was  the  place,  I 
mean — but  he  quite  understood  when  I  told  him.  I  was 
surprised.  He  even  "abandoned  hope"  and  went  in, 
and  got  very  wet  feet. 

Norman,  however,  just  about  that  time  was  nearly 
always  shooting,  either  on  their  own  ground  or  with  the 
Duke,  so  I  was  left  pretty  well  to  myself. 

There  is  one  incident  I  cannot  help  mentioning.  It 
happened  a  few  days  after  Norman  had  given  me  the 
whip.  It  was  a  wet  day,  and  Father  Terence  was  sing- 
ing in  the  Great  Hall — singing  "Puritani,"  and  singing 
it  divinely — and  I  was  listening  in  the  upper  gallery,  as 
I  generally  did,  sitting  on  the  floor,  and  leaning  my 
back  against  the  door  of  the  state  bedroom,  as  it  was 
called,  which  opened  from  the  end  of  the  gallery.  Well, 
Uncle  Guy  happened  to  come  in  from  the  entrance 
hall.  I  heard  the  clack  of  his  shooting  boots  as  he 
walked  across  the  polished  floor,  and  guessed  it  was  him, 
but  didn't  trouble  to  look.  Father  Terence  stopped 
singing,  and  began  playing  soft,  aimless  sort  of  chords. 

"Well,"  he  said,  still  playing,  "how  does  it  work?" 

"Splendidly— couldn't  be  better." 

"Nothing  definite  been  done  yet,  I  suppose?" 

"No;  we  mustn't  be  precipitate.    There's  no  hurry." 

"Certainly  not." 

They  were  hardly  talking  above  a  whisper,  and  the 


58  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

piano  never  stopped  for  a  moment,  but  I  heard  every 
word.  It  was  a  marvellous  place  for  sound — that  big 
hall. 

"The  extraordinary  thing  is,"  my  uncle  went  on, 
"the  boy's  perfectly  infatuated." 

"Devil  blame  him!"  said  the  priest. 

"But  whether  it's  the  same  the  other  way,  I  don't 
know.  I  have  my  doubts. " 

"Pshaw!     Squire,  never  bother  yourself — 

"  'There's  never  a  maid  from  pole  to  pole 

In  valley  or  hill  or  town, 
But  would  drop  in  the  mud  her  lily-white  soul 
To  pick  up  a  diamond  crown.'  " 

sang  Father  Terence  Boyle. 

"Mud!"  said  my  uncle,  angrily.  "Nonsense,  man; 
where's  the  mud,  I  should  like  to  know?  There's  no 
mud  in  the  question." 

"Well,  well,  Squire,  put  it  as  you  will,  so  long  as  the 
end's  the  same." 

"And  if  not?" 

"If  not!  There'll  be  no 'if  not';  but  if  there  is,  well, 
then,  God's  will  be  done." 

My  uncle  passed  on  into  the  drawing-room,  and  the 
priest  started  singing  again. 

"Se  il  mio  nome  saper  voi  bramate 
Dal  mio  labbro  il  mio  nome  ascoltate." 

But  I  had  heard  enough.  I  was  more  than  exercised 
over  the  conversation  I  had  heard.  What  in  the  world 
could  they  have  been  talking  about?  Three  or  four 
wild  explanations  came  tumbling  into  my  head,  one  on 
the  top  of  the  other,  but  I  dismissed  them  one  and  all  as 
too  extravagantly  impossible  to  be  thought  of  for  a 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  GROWS  INTERESTING    59 

moment.  The  most  likely  thing  seemed  to  be  that  they 
were  talking  about  Sophie  and  Lord  Barham,  the  Duke's 
eldest  son.  I  had  gathered  from  one  or  two  little  things 
I  had  heard  that  more  than  one  person  at  Selworth 
would  have  found  no  fault  with  fate  if  the  heir  of  Ashby 
had  laid  his  coronet  at  Sophie's  feet.  However,  it  was 
not  my  business,  and  I  can't  say  I  troubled  my  head 
very  long  over  it.  Good  luck  to  Sophie!  was  all  I 
thought.  What  a  good  duchess  she  would  make! 

It  was  about  this  time  that  I  began  to  have  a  series  of 
what  Uncle  Guy  would  have  called  blank  days  at  Inver- 
snaid — that  is  to  say,  that  for  five  days  Mr.  Grayle  did 
not  come.  Of  course,  he  might  have  passed  during  the 
days  when  I  was  out  with  Norman  down  by  the  lake;  or, 
again,  the  Duke  might  have  settled  the  business  that 
took  him  across  Selworth  Park,  so  that  he  would  not 
have  to  come  any  more  that  way.  That  was  probably  it, 
I  thought.  The  business  had  no  doubt  had  something 
to  do  with  that  farm  that  the  Duke  wanted  to  buy  from 
Uncle  Guy,  and  that  was  all  settled  now. 

So  I  should  have  to  stoke  for  myself  for  the  future. 
It  was  rather  a  bore;  one  got  so  hot  and  dirty  scram- 
bling about  all  over  the  tree,  and  for  the  last  week  I  had 
had  on  my  new  frocks  from  Heloise.  I  began  to  wish 
I  hadn't  put  them  on.  I  began  to  think  that  sitting  up 
in  a  tree  all  the  morning  was  rather  an  idiotic  occupation 
after  all.  Sophie  was  right;  it  was  only  fit  for  children. 
And  though  it  was  all  very  well  to  light  a  fire  now  and 
again,  it  palled  dreadfully  after  a  bit;  there  was  such  a 
sameness  about  it.  "It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  old 
and  blasee,"  I  thought,  "but  there  is  no  doubt  I  am.  I 
am  sick  of  this  stupid  old  tree!  I  don't  think  I  shall 
come  any  more." 


60  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

Poor,  dear  Inversnaid!  There  was  never  a  more 
brutal,  ungrateful  speech;  but  I  don't  think  I  was  quite 
well  at  the  time.  I  was  cross  and  irritable — every  one 
noticed  it,  even  Norman. 

One  day  when  my  fire  had  gone  out — entirely  from 
neglect,  poor  thing! — it  suddenly  flashed  across  me  that 
I  would  go  and  see  old  Mrs.  Beddington.  I  wanted  to 
hear  lots  more  about  father  and  mother,  and  it  would  be 
something  to  do  till  luncheon.  So  I  dropped  down  with 
a  "flump"  into  the  thick  carpet  of  copper-coloured 
leaves,  and  turned  down  the  hill  to  the  right.  It  was 
only  about  half  a  mile  off,  the  old  Manor  House,  down 
the  hill,  and  across  the  broad  open  valley,  and  then  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  up  a  cart  track  through  the 
dead  red  bracken.  The  old  lady  was  delighted ;  she 
saw  me  walking  up  the  gravel  path,  and  came  to  the 
door  herself. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you'd  come,  Miss  Josephine." 

"Yes,  I  want  so  to  hear  more  about  father,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

"My  dear,  of  course  I  don't  mind.  Come  in  and  sit 
down,  and  warm  yourself  by  the  fire.  Winter's  begin- 
ning early  this  year,  I  think." 

"Yes,  it  is  pretty  cold  to-day." 

"So  they've  dressed  you  up,  I  see."  She  was  look- 
ing at  my  new  clothes. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  laughing,  "lots  of  new  clothes." 

"And  how  do  you  like  Selworth?" 

"Oh,  I  love  it!"  I  said;  "there  never  was  such  a  heav- 
enly place  since  the  beginning  of  the  world!" 

The  old  lady  smiled  one  of  her  inscrutable  smiles. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  old  place!"  she  said;  "and  have 
they  given  you  a  nice  room?" 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  GROWS  INTERESTING    61 

"Oh,  yes,  a  lovely  room  in  the  east  wing;  what  they 
call  the  panelled  room." 

"Ah!" 

"You  know  it,  do  you?" 

"My  dear,  I  know  every  room  in  the  Abbey.  You 
forget  I  was  housekeeper  there  for  several  years." 

"Oh!  I  didn't  know.  Well,  isn't  it  a  lovely  room, 
Mrs.  Beddington?" 

"Yes,  a  very  pretty  room,  but  noisy  sometimes  if 
there's  any  one  in  the  room  overhead." 

"Noisy!"  I  cried.     "Why,  I  never  hear  a  sound!" 

"Perhaps  there's  no  one  above  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is;  Norman  sleeps  in  the  room 
above." 

She  got  up  and  put  some  fresh  logs  on  the  fire. 

"And  how  do  you  like  Mr.  Norman?" 

"Oh,  I  like  him  tremendously,  of  course.  He's 
awfully  nice!" 

"And  how  does  he  like  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  I  said,  laughing;  "I  think 
he  likes  me  pretty  well." 

She  was  staring  hard  into  my  face,  as  though  [she 
would  read  my  very  soul. 

"He's  a  splendid  young  fellow!"  she  said,  turning 
away,  "a  splendid  young  fellow!" 

"But,  Mrs.  Beddington,  "  I  cried,  "you  are  not  tell- 
ing me  anything  about  my  father.  It  seems  to  me  that 
I  am  telling  you  all  the  news." 

"Well,  well,"  she  said,  sitting  down,  "where  shall 
we  begin?" 

"At  the  beginning,"  I  said.     "Tell  me  everything." 

"Everything  is  a  good  deal,"  she  said,  wagging  her 
head  at  me. 


62  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Never  mind,"  I  said,  "there's  lots  of  time." 

"Well,  then,  I  was  a  mere  child,  you  must  know, 
when  I  first  took  up  your  father — seventeen  only,  and 
as  ignorant  and  silly  and  vain — Lord  forgive  me! — as  a 
magpie.  I  shall  never  forget  when  the  groom  came 
riding  down  with  a  note  asking  would  I  go  as  nurse  to 
the  new  baby  up  at  the  Abbey. 

"Father  had  Croft's  Farm,  you  know,  this  side  of 
Benton.  Well,  it  took  us  clean  off  our  feet — such  an 
honour  as  that,  and  me  a  mere  chit  of  a  girl  and  all! 
But  I  did  know  something  about  children,  of  course, 
having  looked  after  the  two  boys.  Well,  I  put  on  my 
Sunday  clothes — a  lilac  print  dress,  I  remember,  with  a 
waist  under  the  arms,  and  a  long  flat  straw  bonnet  with 
big  ribbons — and  walked  up  to  the  Abbey,  and  they  sent 
down  a  farm  cart  to  fetch  up  my  traps.  The  'old 
Squire' — Mordaunt  that  is,  you  know — was  sitting  in 
his  room,  and  I  was  shown  straight  in.  He  wasn't  old, 
then — about  thirty,  I  suppose. 

"  'Miss  Crossly,'  he  says,  as  polite  as  though  I  was  a 
duchess,  'do  you  think  you  can  undertake  the  care  of 
this  baby?' 

"  'I'll  do  my  best,  sir,'  says  I,  dropping  a  courtesy, 
and  I  am  sure  simpering  like  the  silly  I  was. 

"  'Very  well,  then,  you  can  enter  upon  your  duties  at 
once;  and  whatever  happens,  remember,  I  shall  always 
feel  quite  sure  that  you  have  done  your  best.' 

"  'I  hadn't  an  idea  what  he  meant  at  the  time,  but  I 
dropped  another  courtesy,  and  followed  the  housekeeper 
upstairs.  The  baby  was  in  the  west  wing,  or  the  new 
wing,  as  it  was  called  then,  and  right  at  the  top  of  the 
house.  You  never  did  see  such  a  poor  little  misery  of  a 
thing!  It  looked  three  parts  dead;  and  then  that  left 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  GROWS  INTERESTING    63 

leg  was  all  shrunken  and  short  even  then,  and  the  cast 
in  the  eyes  was  something  awful.  You  can  remember 
that  cast,  I  suppose,  Miss  Josephine,  though  it  got  bet- 
ter, poor  fellow,  as  he  grew  up.  Well,  I  all  but 
screamed  when  I  saw  the  little  mite.  You  see,  I  remem- 
bered what  George  and  Harry,  our  babies  at  home,  had 
been  like,  and  the  sight  of  your  poor  dear  father  gave 
me  quite  a  turn.  How  it  came  to  be  so,  I  can't  say. 
Folks  did  say  something  about  bad  blood  on  the  mother's 
side — she  was  one  of  the  O'Donnells,  you  know — but 
whether  that  was  so  or  not,  I  don't  know.  To  be  sure, 
the  Squire,  your  uncle,  never  had  a  little  finger  to  his 
left  hand,  though  perfect  in  every  other  way.  But  there 
it  was;  the  child  was  hardly  human.  However,  thank 
God  for  this,  that  whatever  my  other  sins  may  have 
been,  I  nursed  that  little  thing  as  though  it  had  been 
my  own,  and  the  bonniest  child  on  earth.  And  it  grew, 
and  fattened,  and  flourished,  and  I  got  to  love  it  better 
than  anything  in  the  world." 

"But,  Mrs.  Beddington, "  I  said,  "I  don't  understand. 
Where  was  Uncle  Guy  all  this  time,  and  why  didn't  his 
nurse  take  charge  of  father  as  well?" 

"Guy?"  she  said,  "Guy? — oh,  yes.  Well,  you  see 
the  old  Squire  had  a  fancy  for  keeping  them  apart. 
Your  uncle  was  always  in  what  we  called  the  old 
nursery — the  room  over  yours  that  Mr.  Norman  sleeps 
in — and  your  father  and  I  were  right  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  house.  And  the  two  babies  never  met.  I  had 
orders  always  to  take  mine  out  down  the  long  walk, 
and  round  about  the  shrubbery  there ;  and  your  uncle 
and  his  nurse  used  always  to  go  through  the  Italian  gar- 
den towards  the  old  abbey.  We  never  met,  either  in  the 
house  or  out." 


64  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  never  met?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  my  dear,  we  were  never  supposed  to  meet, 
and  it  was  very,  very  difficult,  and  if  your  grandfather 
had  heard  of  it,  we  should  both  have  been  bundled  out 
of  the  door  that  very  day.  He  was  a  bad  man  to  cross, 
was  the  old  Squire.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we  did 
meet  once  or  twice — not  more." 

"Then,  I  suppose,  you  took  the  baby  to  see  my  grand- 
mother sometimes?" 

"Never.  It  was  not  allowed.  Mordaunt  wouldn't 
have  the  children  seen  about  the  house.  But  she,  poor 
dear,  used  to  come  up  to  the  nursery  three  or  four  times 
a  day.  She  just  worshipped  the  little  thing." 

"But,  Mrs.  Beddington,  I  thought  she  died?" 

"Died!  Lord  bless  you,  no;  not  till  after — ah!  well 
she  did  die,  poor  thing,  of  course ;  I  was  forgetting,  but 
not  so  quick  as  all  that.  She  had  time  to  see  the  baby 
many  times." 

"I  always  understood  she  never  left  her  bed." 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear.  She  did  die,  of  course,  but  not  so 
quick  as  all  that." 

"Then,  did  my  grandfather  ever  see  the  child?  I  sup- 
pose not." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  used  to  come  pretty  often;  but  he  never 
could  bear  the  sight  of  your  poor  father.  You  see, 
Mordaunt  was  a  splendidly  handsome  man,  as  his  father 
Maurice  had  been  before  him — the  De  Metriers  always 
had  been  famed  for  their  beauty,  even  then — and  I  think 
it  was  a  kind  of  point  of  honour  with  him  that  his  chil- 
dren should  be  fine  and  large  and  straight  and  hand- 
some, as  the  race  always  had  been;  and  it  drove  him 
wild,  I  think,  to  see  this  little  crooked,  wizened  misery 
that  he  had  brought  into  the  world.  The  other  child, 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  GROWS  INTERESTING    65 

your  uncle,  he  always  worshipped.  He  was  a  splendid 
boy  from  the  first,  barring  the  finger,  of  course;  but 
that  was  nothing." 

"But  why  did  he  come  so  often  to  see  my  father  if  he 
hated  the  sight  of  him  so?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  he  wanted  to  see  that  things  were 
as  they  should  be,  and  clean,  and  kept  in  proper  order. 
He  was  wonderfully  particular  about  little  things,  was 
Mordaunt — hated  dirty  clothes,  or  soiled  linen,  or  speck 
or  spot  on  anything." 

"Did  you  like  him?" 

"Who?  Mordaunt?  Oh,  yes;  I  was  bound  to  like 
him.  You  see  he  was  my  master,  and  a  very  kind  mas- 
ter, too,  as  long  as  things  went  straight." 

"Well,  tell  me  some  more." 

"More?  Let  me  see,  my  dear,  what  more  is  there  to 
tell?  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  about  the  veils.  That 
was  another  crank  of  the  old  Squire's.  He  would  never 
have  the  children  leave  the  nurseries  to  go  out  without 
veils — white  veils — and  so  thick  that  their  own  mother 
couldn't  have  told  one  from  t'other,  or  either  of  them 
from  cats  or  monkeys.  A  curious  craze  you  may  well 
say,  but  so  it  was." 

"But  what  on  earth  was  the  object  of  it?"  I  said.  "I 
think  my  grandfather  must  have  been  mad!" 

"No  more  mad  than  you  or  me,  my  dear;  he  had 
some  good  reason,  you  may  be  pretty  sure.  Well,  this 
went  on — the  veil  business,  I  mean — till  your  father  was 
two  and  a  half  or  so,  and  then  I  married  Beddington, 
and  both  the  children  were  put  under  Mrs.  Grace,  in  the 
new  nurseries  in  the  west  wing." 

"But  you  and  father  were  in  the  west  wing  nurseries, 
you  told  me,  Mrs.  Beddington." 


66  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Did  I,  my  dear?  Well,  and  so  we  were;  but  you 
see  your  uncle's  first  nurse,  Mrs.  Graham,  died — was 
found  dead  in  her  bed  in  the  old  nursery." 

"That's  where  Norman  is?" 

"Yes;  failure  of  the  heart  they  said  it  was.  Well, 
after  this,  your  father  and  I  were  moved  into  the  old 
nursery,  and  your  uncle  and  Mrs.  Grace — his  new  nurse 
that  is — went  to  the  new  nurseries.  It's  rather  confus- 
ing, isn't  it?" 

"Very,"  I  said,  laughing.  "And  then  you  went  and 
married  Beddington.  Why  did  you  do  that?  Were  you 
very  fond  of  him?" 

"Well,  no,  my  dear,  I  wasn't  fond  of  him,  and  that's 
the  truth — never  cared  a  snap  of  my  fingers  for  him. 
He  was  a  poor  little  slip  of  a  fellow  as  ever  you  saw,  and 
consumptive,  and  fit  for  nothing  much  except  making 
stools  and  tables  and  such  like.  And  I  don't  think  any 
girl  could  have  cared  for  him,  least  of  all  a  giddy,  silly 
thing  such  as  I  was." 

"Then,  why  did  you  marry  him?"  I  cried  aghast.  "I 
think  it  was  horrible  of  you!" 

"Well,  you  see,  my  dear,  poor  folks  can't  always 
pick  and  choose;  they  have  most  ways  to  take  what  they 
can  get,  and  be  thankful  for  that.  And  then  Mordaunt 
gave  us  this  house,  and  pretty  well  everything  we  could 
want  besides,  so  that  it  would  have  been  flying  in  the 
face  of  Providence,  so  to  speak,  to  have  refused." 

"And  you  have  been  here  ever  since?" 

"Ever  since,  except  during  the  four  years  I  was 
housekeeper  at  the  Abbey.  That  was  the  last  four  years 
of  the  old  Squire's  life.  When  he  died  your  uncle  sent 
me  back  here,  and  I  was  pretty  glad  to  come,  I  can  tell 
you;  housekeeping  isn't  in  my  line.  And  here  I  hope 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  GROWS  INTERESTING    67 

to  be  till  I  die,  which  will  not  be  very  long  now,  my 
dear,  for  my  heart  is  mighty  bad  at  times,  and  that's  the 
truth.  Beddington,  poor  fellow,  he  went  off  sudden 
when  we  had  been  married  four  years.  He  was  always 
weakly." 

"And  how  many  children  have  you  got?" 

"Four — all  boys.  George,  the  eldest,  is  head  keeper 
to  Squire,  as  you  know.  Bill  and  John  are  out  in  India; 
the  old  Squire  gave  them  a  good  start  in  life,  and  they're 
doing  well.  And  Henry,  the  youngest,  lives  here  with 
me.  You  have  never  seen  him?  No,  likely  not.  You 
see  he's  house-carpenter  up  at  the  Abbey — brought  up 
to  his  father's  trade — and  he's  there  in  his  shop  all  day, 
and  just  comes  home  of  nights." 

"I  must  be  going  now  or  I  shall  be  late,"  I  said,  get- 
ting up.  "You  can't  think  how  interesting  it  has  tbeen 
to  me  to  hear  all  this,  Mrs.  Beddington." 

"Why  does  it  interest  you?" 

"Well,  of  course,  it  interests  me  to  hear  all  about  my 
father  when  he  was  a  baby.  It  seems  so  wonderful  to 
think  that  you  should  have  been  his  nurse.  You  look 
so  young  somehow,  in  spite  of  your  white  hair.  Were 
you  very  pretty  when  you  were  young?  I  suppose  you 
were." 

"I  believe  I  was,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "and  I  know 
very  well  I  thought  I  was.  May  the  Lord  forgive  me 
for  all  my  vanity  and  wickedness,  and  guide  me  aright 
now  at  the  last!" 

"Well,  there's  nothing  very  dreadful  in  thinking 
you're  pretty,"  I  said,  laughing,  for  her  manner  was 
quite  tragic.  "I  wish  I  could  think  /  was.  I  should 
be  vain  enough,  I  know." 

She  looked  at  me  hard  for  a  minute,  but  said  nothing. 


68  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

Then  suddenly  she  rose,  and  putting  her  two  hands  on 
my  shoulders,  said:  "Miss  Josephine,  my  dear,  remem- 
ber 4that  whatever  may  happen,  you  have  always  got  a 
friend  in  Susan  Beddington. " 

"But  you  said  that  to  me  the  last  time  I  was  here,"  I 
exclaimed.  "Why  should  I  want  a  friend?  Nobody's 
going  to  attack  me;  I'm  not  worth  it." 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "we're  none  of  us  the  worse 
for  having  a  friend  who  will  stick  through  good  and  ill, 
even  though  it's  only  a  poor  old  rickety  woman.  And 
now  you  must  run  away  quick,  or  you'll  be  late,  and  I 
know  her  ladyship  doesn't  like  that." 

I  shook  her  hand,  and  then  stood  for  a  moment  in 
doubt.  I  was  wondering  whether  she  would  mind  very 
much  if  I  kissed  her.  I  felt  rather  shy  about  it,  but 
longed  to,  all  the  same — she  looked  such  an  old  dear. 

Suddenly  I  made  a  plunge,  and  feeling  rather  hot, 
kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  To  my  amazement,  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  for  a  moment  she  could  say  noth- 
ing, but  just  stood  there,  holding  my  hand.  Then  very 
low  she  said,  "God  bless  you,  my  dear!"  and  turned 
quickly  away. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

AN   EXPLOSION,   A   JUSTIFICATION,    AND   A   PRAYER 

T  WAS  late.  And  Aunt  Harriet  did  raise  her  eye- 
A  brows,  and  pucker  up  her  mouth,  and  say,  "Wher- 
ever have  you  been,  my  dear  Josephine?" 

I  was  always  being  late  for  luncheon,  and  she  hated 
it,  I  knew.  Sophie  was  never  late;  but  then,  of  course, 
it  is  easy  to  be  in  time  for  things  if  you  never  go  out. 

And  I  used  often  to  come  in,  hot  and  panting,  and 
with  a  scarlet  face,  having  run  most  of  the  way  back 
across  "the  Plain,"  and  with  my  hair  all  untidy  and 
dropping  right  down  over  my  eyes,  in  the  way  it  would 
do  unless  I  did  it  up  afresh  every  two  hours.  And  there 
would  be  Sophie,  opposite,  as  fresh  and  cool  and  spick- 
and-span  as  a  newly-clipped  hedge.  And  Aunt  Harriet 
would  stare  at  me  with  that  calm  look  of  hers  that  always 
frightened  me  so,  and  say:  "My  dear  child,  you  do 
look  hot!  I  declare  you  are  quite  in  a  transpiration. 
What  have  you  been  doing — digging  potatoes?"  And 
once,  with  a  little  genteel  laugh,  she  said:  "Goodness, 
Josephine,  you  look  just  like  a  Skye  terrier!  You  really 
should  brush  your  hair  a  little  more  carefully.  I  am 
afraid  you  are  not  very  soignee." 

"I  can't  help  it,  Aunt  Harriet,"  I  said,  hopelessly. 
' '  My  hair  will  not  keep  up.  I  think  I  shall  cut  it  all  off. ' ' 

But  my  uncle  was  delighted  when  he  heard  this 
speech  of  Aunt  Harriet's. 

69 


yo  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Ho!  ho!  ho!"  he  laughed,  "a  Skye  terrier!  That's 
just  what  the  little  minx  is — a  long-haired  Skye  terrier 
(he  called  it  tarrier).  Damme!  if  I  don't  call  her  that!" 

And  he  did  for  a  time. 

"But  you  mustn't  cut  your  hair,  Joe,  you  Know,  or 
you'll  go  blind.  Tarriers  always  go  blind  if  you  cut  the 
hair  that  falls  over  their  eyes.  Gad!  I  wish  I'd  a  lit- 
tle more  to  fall  over  my  eyes." 

All  this,  however,  was  not  on  the  day  that  I  went  to 
see  Mrs.  Beddington.  On  that  day  something  rather 
dreadful  happened  at  luncheon.  I  was  late,  as  I  have 
said — only  about  ten  minutes  or  so — and  when  I  went 
into  the  dining-room  I  was  very  hot,  and,  I  suppose,  a 
little  dishevelled. 

It  was  a  great  big  room,  and  looked  all  the  bigger 
when  there  was  only  a  small  party  and  a  small  table  to 
fit  them.  Norman  was  shooting  with  the  Duke,  but  the 
other  four  were  there.  Father  Terence,  as  usual,  was 
telling  one  of  his  anecdotes,  but  he  stopped  short  when 
I  made  my  rather  shamefaced  appearance. 

And  my  aunt  as  usual  said : 

"Wherever  have  you  been,  Josephine?"  as  if  one  was 
bound  to  have  been  to  the  North  Pole,  or  somewhere, 
because  one  happened  to  be  a  few  minutes  late. 

There  were  no  servants  in  the  room.  My  uncle 
couldn't  stand  them  at  luncheon,  "prowling  about,"  as 
he  called  it,  "and  handing  you  everything  you  don't 
want,  and  nothing  you  do." 

Well,  my  aunt  said,  "Wherever  have  you  been?" 

And  I  quite  innocently  said:  "Oh,  I  have  been  hav- 
ing a  long  talk  with  that  dear  old  Mrs.  Beddington.' 

"With  who?"  said  Uncle  Guy,  looking  up. 

"With  Mrs.  Beddington." 


AN   EXPLOSION  71 

"Oh,  yes,  the  keeper's  wife?" 

"No,   I  don't  think  so.     I  mean  the  old  lady  who 
lives  at  the  Manor  House." 
•      "Oh,  you  have  been  talking  to  her,  have  you?" 

I  looked  at  my  uncle  in  amazement.  His  face  was 
twitching  all  over,  and  great  veins  stood  out  on  his  fore- 
head. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you  that  you  had  no  business  to. 
It  was  a  liberty — a  damned  liberty!" 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  I  said,  humbly;  "I  didn't  know. 
I  only  wanted  to  ask  her  about  father;  she  was  his  nurse, 
you  know." 

I  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  my  uncle,  in  the  same 
way  that  I  was  of  my  aunt;  I  looked  upon  him  as  a  sort 
of  easy-going,  overgrown  boy.  He  had  never  been  any- 
thing but  kindness  itself  to  me  till  this  moment;  and 
even  now  I  was  not  in  the  least  appalled,  only  aston- 
ished. 

But  after  my  speech  I  was  more  astonished  still,  and 
appalled  as  well.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  change  in  a 
man;  I  should  scarcely  have  known  him.  The  whole 
expression  of  his  face  was  changed.  His  skin  grew  pur- 
ple, and  the  eyes  seemed  to  contract  and  disappear  under 
his  thick,  bushy  brows. 

"And  what  business  have  you,  pray,"  he  said,  in  a 
thick,  choky  voice,  "what  business  have  you  to  go  sneak- 
ing about  in  this  underhand  fashion  among  the  people 
living  on  my  property?  I  won't  have  it,  Josephine — 
won't  have  it,  d'you  hear?  You're  never  again  under 
any  pretext  to  speak  to  that  woman.  If  you  do,  out  of 
my  house  you  go  the  very  same  day — out  of  my  house, 
and  back  to  your  beggarly  lodgings  at  Chelmsford." 


72  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  shout.  There  was  a  dead 
silence  when  he  had  finished.  Every  one  looked  hard  at 
his  plate.  For  my  own  part,  I  thought  my  poor  uncle 
had  gone  clean  mad.  I  don't  know  what  the  others 
thought. 

Uncle  Guy  himself  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"Jabbering  old  witch!"  he  said.  "She  never  had  the 
brains  of  a  goat,  and  now  what  little  wits  she  ever  had 
are  gone — gone  along  with  her  memory.  Nothing  those 
old  harridans  love  so  much  as  tittling  and  tattling  about 
things  they  know  nothing  about.  Well,  you  understand 
me,  Josephine?  I  forbid  you  absolutely  to  speak  to  her 
again,  or  you  either,  Sophie." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  very  low,  and  feeling  hot  all  over. 

"Very  well,  then,  don't  forget." 

We  sat  for  another  five  minutes  in  one  of  the  most 
awkward  silences  I  have  ever  felt.  Aunt  Harriet  and 
Father  Terence  tried  to  get  up  a  conversation  about  the 
Christmas  festivities,  but  it  all  sounded  dreadfully  forced 
and  sham. 

Then  at  last  there  was  a  move.  Sophie  and  I  flew 
out  of  the  room  the  back  way,  by  the  serving-door,  and 
scuttled  like  rabbits  down  the  long  passage,  till  we  came 
to  the  little  staircase  that  led  to  our  schoolroom.  Never 
once  did  we  pause  or  draw  breath  till  the  door  was  closed 
behind  us,  and  we  had  flung  ourselves,  panting  and 
breathless,  into  two  of  the  many  big  chairs  that  littered 
the  room.  Even  then  it  was  some  time  before  we  could 
find  our  voices.  Sophie  giggled  feebly,  but  I  was  far  too 
staggered. 

"What  on  earth  does  it  mean?"  I  gasped  at  length. 

"Goodness  knows!"  she  said.  "I  haven't  the  very 
faintest  idea.  I  expect  it's  the  gout." 


AN   EXPLOSION  73 

"But  have  you  ever  seen  him  like  it  before?" 

"Oh,  yes;  he's  got  an  awful  temper,  but  it  isn't  often 
it  shows  itself.  And  all  about  such  a  silly  thing,  too." 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  it  was  made  him  so  angry.  I 
think  I'll  go  and  ask  Father  Terence.  He's  sure  to  be 
in  the  chapel." 

"All  right.  Only  don't  ask  me  to  go,  too.  Wild 
horses  wouldn't  drag  me  from  this  room  for  the  next  half 
hour.  It  isn't  safe." 

"Oh,  I'll  sneak  down  by  the  stone  turret.  There's 
not  a  ghost  of  a  chance  of  meeting  him  there.  But  I 
simply  must  find  out." 

So  I  fluttered  out  of  tne  room,  with  my  heart  in  my 
mouth  I  am  bound  to  own,  and  ran  down  the  passage  to 
the  left,  to  the  stone  turret.  From  the  foot  of  this  to 
the  chapel  there  was  practically  no  danger,  for  my  uncle's 
room  lay  miles  away.  However,  I  ran  on  tip-toe  with  a 
slight  feeling  of  being  hunted,  and  was  glad  enough  to 
hear  the  organ  booming  dully  through  the  closed  doors. 
I  entered  the  chapel,  still  on  tip-toe,  and  shut  the  doors 
behind  me.  This  chapel  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
things  I  have  ever  seen;  rather  in  a  florid  style,  per- 
haps, with  a  great  deal  of  marble  and  gilding,  but  won- 
derfully beautiful. 

The  ceiling  was  flat,  and  in  square  panels,  separated 
by  little  gold  beams,  each  panel  painted  in  some  Scrip- 
tural subject.  The  windows,  too,  were  very  fine,  but  so 
small  that  in  mere  daylight  the  place  was  almost  dark. 

Father  Terence  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  me,  play- 
ing softly  to  himself.  When  I  was  quite  close  to  him  he 
turned  round  with  a  start. 

"Ah!  Miss  Joe,"  he  said,  "what  can  I  do  for  you 
now?  Will  I  sing  to  you?" 


74  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"No,"  I  said,  "not  now,  thanks.  I  want  to  ask  you 
a  question." 

"You're  not  come  to  confess,  surely?"  he  said,  with  a 
laugh. 

"No;  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  What  was  it 
made  Uncle  Guy  so  furious  at  luncheon?" 

The  priest  was  still  playing  softly,  looking  round  and 
talking  over  his  shoulder.  It  was  a  way  he  had  if  one 
caught  him  at  the  organ  or  piano.  Now,  however,  he 
dropped  his  hands  from  the  keys,  and  faced  bodily  round. 
His  face,  too,  assumed  a  solemn,  fatherly  look. 

"My  dear  Miss  Joe,"  he  said,  pawing  my  shoulder 
heavily,  "my  dear  Miss  Joe,  your  uncle  was  very  natur- 
ally annoyed.  This  Mrs.  Beddington  was  a  legacy  of  the 
old  Squire's,  and  not  a  very  respectable  legacy,  either. 
He  would  naturally  not  wish  you  to  associate  with  her." 

"But  you  can't  know  her,  Father  Terence,"  I  cried. 
"There  never  was  a  more  respectable  old  lady.  She  is 
beautifully  neat  and  clean,  and  talks  like  a  lady,  and, 
altogether,  she's  the  greatest  old  duck  I've  ever  seen." 

"Mrs.  Beddington  in  her  old  age  no  doubt  presents  a 
decent  exterior,"  said  the  priest,  gravely,  "but  Mrs. 
Beddington  was  once  Susan  Crossly." 

"Yes,  I  know  she  was,"  I  said;  "she  told  me.  But 
what  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"It  has  this  to  do  with  it,  Miss  Joe,  that  any  one  who 
was  once  Susan  Crossly  is  no  fit  companion  for  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  said;  "I  don't  understand." 

"Well,  how  shall  I  put  it?  This  Mrs.  Beddington, 
whom  you  admire  so  much,  in  the  days  when  she  was 
Susan  Crossly  was  a  very  wicked  woman." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it!"  I  said.  "What  did 
she  do  wicked?" 


AN    EXPLOSION  75 

"Faith!  as  much  as  she  could,  from  all  accounts," 
said  the  priest,  with  a  chuckle. 

"I  think  it's  perfectly  horrid  of  you  to  say  such 
things!"  I  said,  furiously.  "I  don't  believe  she  was 
wicked  a  bit.  Is  it  likely  my  uncle  would  let  her  live  in 
the  park,  and  in  that  lovely  old  house,  if  she  was 
wicked?  Of  course  not." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  in  his  most  solemn 
voice,  blinking  his  little  eyes  at  me,  "there  are  some 
things  in  this  world  that  men  are  bound  to  respect,  and 
one  of  them  is  the  wishes  of  their  dead  parents.  It  was 
the  dying  wish  of  the  old  Squire  that  Mrs.  Beddington 
should  be  left  in  undisturbed  possession  of  the  old 
Manor  House  in  the  park,  and  that  her  children  should 
be  carefully  provided  for.  A  solemn  charge  like  this  is 
a  thing  that  cannot  be  put  aside — and  your  uncle  has 
respected  it,  all  honour  to  him!  But  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  he  objects  strongly  to  you  or  Miss 
Sophie  associating  with  the  woman." 

He  shut  his  mouth  tight,  and  glared  at  me  from 
under  his  brows. 

Suddenly  a  thought  struck  me — a  brilliant  thought. 

"Then,  why,  if  she  was  so  wicked,  did  the  old  Squire 
leave  such  a  charge  to  my  uncle?"  I  said,  triumphantly. 
"Is  it  likely  he  would  want  to  provide  for  such  a  dread- 
fully wicked  woman?  I  never  heard  a  more  improbable 
story  in  my  life,  and  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

I  saw  this  was  a  staggerer  for  the  priest.  He  hadn't 
a  word  to  say.  He  just  looked  at  me  fixedly  for  a  minute 
or  so,  and  then  burst  out  laughing. 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  Miss  Joe,  you  have  me  there," 
he  said.  "And  we  will  allow,  if  you  like,  that  Mrs. 
Beddington  has  always  been  a  model  of  every  virtue 


76  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

under  the  sun;  but,  you  see,  the  fact  remains,  that  this 
good  woman  and  her  numerous  family  have  been  left  a 
legacy  to  the  estate;  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  your 
uncle  is  a  little  sore  about  it.  There  are  half  a  dozen 
Beddingtons  living  in  the  park  this  day,  and  two  more 
out  in  India,  and  all  this  is  a  serious  tax  on  an  estate — 
well,  perhaps  not  a  serious  tax  exactly  to  so  wealthy  a 
man  as  your  uncle,  but  a  distinct  annoyance." 

He  paused,  as  though  to  mark  the  effect  of  his  words. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  would  be,"  1  admitted. 

"And  you'll  respect  his  wishes  in  the  matter,  I  am 
sure,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  my  head.  He  was 
standing  at  the  top  of  the  altar  steps,  and  I  at  the  bot- 
tom. On  the  level  we  were  about  the  same  height. 

"Well,  it  seems  rather  absurd,  doesn't  it?"  I  said, 
doubtfully. 

"It  may  seem  absurd  from  your  point  of  view,  but 
you  must  remember  this:  you  are  a  guest  in  your  uncle's 
house;  he  has  loaded  you  with  kindnesses;  and  the  least 
you  can  do  in  return  is  to  fall  in  with  his  wishes,  even 
though  they  may  seem  absurd  to  you.  Besides,  you  are 
little  more  than  a  child  in  years,  and  an  absolute  child 
in  understanding,  and  he  must  know  best." 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  things  about  this  man 
was  the  extraordinary  way  in  which  his  manner  would 
chop  and  change  about.  One  minute  he  would  be  acting 
a  kind  of  buffoon,  and  the  next  he  would  put  on  a  man- 
ner so  sublime  and  impassioned  that  it  awed  one  in  spite 
of  the  sudden  change.  Just  now  his  voice  was  low,  but 
rolling  so  solemnly  and  portentously  that  I  was  more 
impressed  than  I  can  describe.  I  felt  that  this  must  be 
a  good  man  and  a  wise,  and  that  I  was  a  poor,  silly  fool. 
And  strangely  enough,  the  whole  time  my  memory  was 


AN    EXPLOSION  77 

jumping  back  eight  years  to  the  day  when  he  had  talked 
to  me  in  the  same  deep,  musical  voice  in  the  little  front 
parlour  at  Chelmsford.  I  remembered  well  the  end  of 
that  interview — the  everlasting  perdition  to  which  he  had 
consigned  me — but  the  present  effect  on  my  senses  was 
stronger  even  than  memory.  I  suppose  the  dimly- 
lighted  chapel,  with  all  its  impressive  surroundings,  was 
not  without  its  effect  on  me.  Anyhow,  for  the  time,  my 
will  was  subject  to  the  man's. 

"You  will  do  this,  I  am  sure?"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
little  above  a  whisper. 

"Yes,"  I  murmured. 

I  think  he  must  have  seen  the  effect  he  had  produced, 
and  determined  to  improve  upon  it. 

"That  is  right,"  he  said,  with  his  hand  still  on  my 
head;  "be  strong  and  brave,  and  put  your  trust  There." 

He  half  turned  round,  and  with  the  hand  that  was 
free  pointed  to  the  beautiful  ivory  crucifix  that  hung 
over  the  altar. 

"Kneel,  my  child,"  he  said.  He  pressed  me  down 
with  his  hand,  and  I  did  kneel — on  the  steps.  Why  I  did 
it  I  can't  think  to  this  day.  It  seems  an  extraordinary 
thing  to  have  done;  but  at  the  time  it  seemed  quite 
natural  and  proper.  I  bowed  my  head,  and  clasped  my 
hands  in  front  of  me,  waiting.  After  a  slight  pause,  the 
priest's  voice  swelled  slowly  through  the  chapel — 

"  O  Mater  Sanctissima  Christi,  protege  hanc  filiam  ab 
omnibus  periclis,  et  servo,  fortem  impavidamque  ad  finem,  te 
precatmtr  in  nomine  Patri,  et  Filii,  et  Spiritus  Sancti." 

I  rose  slowly  to  my  feet  and  made  my  way  out,  leav- 
ing Father  Terence  standing  on  the  steps. 


CHAPTER   IX 

A    SHOOTING    PARTY 

T  T  was  towards  the  end  of  November,  and  there  was  a 
•*  shooting  party  at  Selworth.  Such  a  gathering  of 
antediluvians!  I  never  saw  anything  like  it.  Old  gen- 
erals, and  still  older  baronets,  and  Members  of  Parlia- 
ment older  than  either.  The  Duke  was  there,  and  was 
very  nice  and  cheery,  but  the  rest  were  dreadful!  They 
talked  nothing  but  politics  and  taxation  and  turnips  from 
morning  to  night. 

"Do  they  never  have  a  man  in  the  house  under  fifty?" 
I  asked  Sophie. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said;  "as  a  rule  they're  quite  differ- 
ent. Papa  likes  young  men,  you  know.  I  suppose  it's 
just  an  accident  having  all  these  old  fogies." 

General  Borrodaile  had  a  wife  who  must  have  been  at 
least  forty  years  younger  than  he  was.  She  was  very 
pretty,  with  masses  of  golden  hair,  but  rather  stupid  and 
silent,  I  thought.  None  of  the  women  in  the  house 
cared  for  her,  but  she  seemed  to  get  on  very  well  with 
the  men,  especially  with  Norman  and  the  Duke.  Sophie 
swore  she  painted  her  face,  but  I  don't  think  so.  She 
had  an  immense  mouth,  armed  with  immense  white 
teeth,  which  ought  to  have  spoilt  her  looks,  but  some- 
how did  not;  it  seemed  to  suit  her  style  of  face.  The 
reason  I  remember  her  so  well  is  this:  One  day,  when 
they  were  out  shooting,  we  were  all  sitting  at  luncheon — 

78 


A   SHOOTING   PARTY  79 

a  dull  party  of  women,  kept  going  by  Father  Terence. 
Mrs.  Borrodaile  was  out  with  the  shooters,  and  the  occa- 
sion was  seized  upon  by  the  rest  of  the  party  to  run  her 
down.  They  had  been  discussing  her  for  some  time, 
when  Father  Terence  suddenly  turned  to  me — Sophie 
and  I  had  naturally  left  the  rending  of  her  to  the  elder 
women.  "Well,  Miss  Joe,"  he  said,  "and  what's  your 
opinion  of  the  lady?" 

"She's  wonderfully  pretty,"  I  said,  "but  I  think  she 
looks  carnivorous." 

I  was  thinking  of  her  mouth  and  teeth.  I  thought 
Father  Terence  would  have  fallen  from  his  chair.  I 
never  saw  a  man  laugh  so.  He  rolled  from  side  to  side, 
and  smacked  his  legs,  and  got  so  purple  in  the  face  I 
thought  he  would  have  a  fit. 

"Carnivorous!"  he  cried,  in  a  high,  shrill  voice,  with 
the  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks,  "carnivorous!  Oh, 
dear!  oh,  dear!  I  shall  die!" 

The  rest  of  the  women  laughed,  too — roared,  in 
fact — all  except  Aunt  Harriet,  who  tightened  her  mouth, 
and  looked  acid. 

"My  dear  Josephine,"  she  said,  "you  must  really  be 
more  careful  what  you  say.  I  cannot  say  I  consider 
your  remark  at  all  bon  ton." 

"Ah,  now,  Lady  Harriet,  let  the  child  be.  She  has 
tied  the  right  label  on  this  time,  and  without  her  we 
might  never  have  found  it." 

They  all  laughed  again — for  about  five  minutes. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I'm  glad  I'm  so  amusing.  Some- 
body else  make  a  joke  now." 

"Faith!  there'll  be  none  to  beat  that,"  said  the 
priest.  "The  Squire'll  have  a  fit  when  he  hears  it." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  believe  the  Squire  did;  I 


8o  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

believe  he  was  more  or  less  angry.  However,  as  to  that 
I  never  asked,  nor  indeed  troubled  myself  any  more  one 
way  or  the  other  about  my  extraordinary  good  joke. 

Mrs.  Borrodaile  used  to  sing  after  dinner,  and  sing 
wonderfully  well,  too.  She  had  not  much  voice,  but 
knew  how  to  use  it,  and  sang  with  immense  feeling. 
She  quite  took  the  wind  out  of  poor  Father  Terence. 
The  funny  thing  is,  too,  she  sang  Mrs.  Popham's  songs, 
and  a  great  deal  better  than  he  did.  Of  course,  they 
were  meant  for  a  woman,  and  she  looked  very  pretty  and 
pathetic  as  she  sang  them,  which,  of  course,  he,  poor 
man,  couldn't.  I  shall  never  forget  his  face  that  first 
night  when  she  told  us,  "Why  she  looked  so  pale."  I 
think  it  was  a  revelation  even  to  him.  The  songs  were 
just  made  for  a  voice  like  her's,  and  she  made  us  all 
cry — at  least  most  of  us — I  know  I  did. 

"  In  the  winter  years  ago, 

Long  before  you  can  remember, 
All  the  world  was  white  with  snow 
In  the  month  of  cold  December." 

The  hall  was  very  dimly  lighted,  as  it  always  was;  the 
light  of  the  huge  log  fire  flickered  up  into  the  black 
shadows  of  the  rafters,  and  the  effect  was  immense.  In 
the  drawing-room  we  could  hear  the  General  and  Sir 
Henry  Huthbert  talking  at  the  top  of  their  voices  about 
divisions  in  the  House  of  Commons  on  the  army  esti- 
mates. 

"  Never  since  that  winter's  day 
Has  my  heart  been  free  from  sorrow." 

sang  pretty  Mrs.  Borrodaile,  and  with  such  feeling  that 
we  all  felt  choky.  I  wondered  if  she  was  thinking  of  the 
General. 


A   SHOOTING   PARTY  81 

She  followed  this  with  the  song  of  Littlecote  and  its 
ghost  of  wild  Dayrell,  and  then,  when  we  pressed  her, 
she  sang  "The  Old  House  by  the  Lindens,"  and  we  all 
cried  again. 

Father  Terence  fidgeted  on  his  chair,  and  kept  cough- 
ing the  whole  time.  He  was  as  vain  as  a  gander,  and 
hated  any  one  except  himself  being  at  the  piano.  After- 
wards he  sang  himself,  at  the  top  of  his  big  voice,  to 
show,  I  think,  by  contrast,  what  a  small  thing  Mrs. 
Borrodaile's  was.  But  it  didn't  do.  We  had  to  look  at 
him,  you  see,  which  spoilt  it  all.  In  the  chapel  he  had 
his  back  to  one  when  he  sang,  and  when  he  sang  in  the 
hall,  one  could  get  into  one  of  the  galleries  which 
answered  the  same  purpose;  but  to  sit  within  a  dozen 
yards  and  watch  his  great  mouth  twisting  round  under 
his  left  ear  was  enough  to  take  the  music  out  of  any- 
thing. Still,  he  sang  very  well — he  always  did — but 
somehow,  it  grated  after  Mrs.  Borrodaile. 

Oh,  that  shooting  party!  It  was  a  deadly  affair. 
Sophie  and  I  had  to  try  and  entertain  the  wives  and 
daughters.  We  pretended  to  play  croquet  every  morn- 
ing, but  it  was  not  exciting.  Nobody  ever  knew  when  it 
was  their  turn  to  play,  or  what  ball  they  were  playing 
with.  Of  course,  we  should  have  liked  to  have  gone  out 
with  the  shooters,  but  the  ladies  were  afraid  of  getting 
their  feet  wet,  so  we  had  to  stay  with  them.  Mrs. 
Borrodaile  always  went. 

On  Saturday  morning  the  generals  and  the  Members 
of  Parliament  and  the  baronets  went  off  with  their  dull, 
dull  wives  and  daughters. 

Sophie  and  I  danced  a  jig  in  the  schoolroom,  after 
which  we  lay  back  in  two  big  chairs,  and  said  "Thank 
goodness!"  for  ten  minutes. 


82  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

That  day  at  luncheon  we  heard  that  Tom  Bedding- 
ton  had  had  his  head  broken  by  poachers  the  night  be- 
fore. Selworth  was  always  a  bad  place  for  poachers. 
There  was  a  family  called  Morris  that  were  the  worst  of 
any-r-a  lame  father  and  two  villainous-looking  sons. 
I  had  met  them  all  at  different  times  in  the  park.  That 
was  the  worst  of  Selworth — at  least  I  used  to  think  so — 
there  were  so  many  rights-of- way  through  it;  one  met 
all  sorts  of  people,  which  was  a  bore. 

It  appears  that  the  last  night  of  a  shooting  week  was 
a  favourite  time  for  poachers.  The  idea  was  that  the 
keepers  would  be  too  tired  to  be  on  the  qui  vive.  How- 
ever, as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  had  learned  that  it  was  a 
good  thing  to  be  very  much  on  the  qui  vive  that  night; 
so  poor  Tom  had  been  out  watching  in  Barnard's  Copse, 
and  had  fallen  in  with  half  a  dozen  poachers,  and  got  his 
head  broken.  This  was  not  where  they  had  been  shoot- 
ing, but  on  the  other  side  of  the  park,  on  the  head-keep- 
er's beat.  George  Beddington,  the  head-keeper,  lived 
within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  house,  on  the  way  to 
the  Welham  Lodge.  The  second  keeper,  a  man  named 
Challen,  lived  the  other  side  of  the  lake,  just  inside  the 
park  wall. 

Well,  there  was  a  great  talk  about  this  at  luncheon ; 
and  in  the  end  I  got  leave  to  take  some  jelly  and  some 
port  down  to  the  wounded  man.  Sophie  couldn't  come, 
as  she  was  wanted  to  drive  with  Aunt  Harriet.  They 
had  some  things  at  Selworth,  like  big  jam-pots,  covered 
with  basket-work,  in  which  we  used  to  take  jelly  and 
soup  and  things  to  the  poor  people.  So  I  armed  myself 
with  one  of  these,  full  of  strong  jelly,  and  a  bottle  of 
port,  and  started  off.  In  those  days  port  was  looked 
upon  as  a  universal  remedy  for  all  ailments,  especially 


A   SHOOTING   PARTY  83 

the  ailments  of  the  lower  order.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it 
was  probably  rank  poison  to  poor  Tom,  and  the  wonder 
is  it  didn't  kill  him. 

I  found  the  whole  family  in— -father,  mother,  Jack, 
the  second  son,  a  boy  of  seventeen,  and  Minnie,  the 
daughter.  Tom  was  in  bed,  but  fairly  cheerful,  and 
immensely  grateful  for  my  remedies;  I  asked  him  about 
the  affair,  but  there  was  not  much  to  tell.  He  had 
come  upon  a  party  of  six  poachers,  and  tried  to  take 
their  guns  and  the  game  they  had.  Whereupon  they  had 
clubbed  him  with  the  butt  end  of  their  guns,  and  made 
off.  They  were  all  masked,  so  he  could  swear  to  none 
of  them,  but  he  was  pretty  sure  he  had  recognised  old 
Ned  Morris's  limp. 

After  this  I  used  to  go  down  every  day,  and  never 
empty-handed.  I  took  a  great  liking  to  this  family,  they 
were  all  so  honest-looking  and  so  grateful,  and  so  Eng- 
lish. Tom  was  a  fine-looking  young  fellow — about  one- 
and-twenty — and  picked  up  again  wonderfully  quick, 
though  I  suspect  he  made  the  worst  of  his  head  when- 
ever I  came.  I  suppose  he  was  afraid  the  port  and  jelly 
would  stop  if  he  got  well  too  quick.  I  liked  the  girl, 
too.  Jack  was  rather  shy  and  awkward,  and  seemed 
frightened  of  me,  but  he  had  a  good  open  face. 

It  struck  me  as  odd  that  Uncle  Guy  never  raised  any 
objections  to  my  going  to  see  these  people,  even  though 
they  were  a  part  of  the  objectionable  legacy. 

Sophie  thought  it  must  be  because  George  Bedding- 
ton  was  such  a  good  keeper.  He  was  not  a  mere  charity 
pensioner,  she  said,  like  his  mother  in  the  Manor  House. 
That  may  have  been  it;  but,  whatever  the  reason  was, 
he  actually  encouraged  my  going,  and  used  to  ask  me 
every  evening  for  news  of  my  patient,  as  he  called  Tom. 


CHAPTER   X 

STOKER  AND    HAMADRYAD 

A  BOUT  a  week  after  that  awful  shooting-party,  I 
**  suddenly  took  it  into  my  head  one  morning  to  go 
and  have  a  look  at  Inversnaid.  It  was  more  than  a 
month  since  I  had  been  there,  and  I  felt  rather  ashamed 
of  myself.  The  morning  was  splendid — one  of  those 
still,  sunny,  crisp  December  days  that  for  beauty  and 
enjoyment  beat  any  summer  day  that  ever  was  made. 
The  old  tree  hadn't  a  leaf  left  on  it,  and  looked  all  the 
more  huge  and  majestic  for  its  nakedness.  I  felt  so 
glad  I  had  come.  It  was  like  meeting  an  old  friend 
again.  I  pulled  off  my  jacket  and  hat,  and  threw  them 
on  the  ground,  and  wriggled  up  "the  drawbridge"  in 
the  old  graceful  fashion — new  clothes  and  all! — and 
lighted  a  fire,  and  enjoyed  myself  thoroughly.  From 
the  very  tip-top  of  my  branch,  now  that  the  leaves  were 
off,  I  could  just  get  a  glimpse  of  the  lake,  two  miles 
away,  and  far  away  beyond  that  again  I  could  see  the 
steeple  of  Greystoke  church  sticking  up  into  the  haze  of 
the  horizon.  I  was  in  great  spirits  that  morning;  no- 
body could  have  helped  it  on  such  a  day  as  that.  I  got 
my  head  entangled  among  a  thick  bunch  of  twigs,  and 
they  pulled  all  my  hairpins  out,  but  I  only  laughed. 
I  could  hear  them  tinkling  down  from  one  branch  to 
another  till  they  buried  themselves  at  last  in  the  soft 
carpet  of  leaves  below.  I  laughed  again,  but  made  a 

84 


STOKER   AND    HAMADRYAD  85 

mental  note  that  I  must  get  into  the  house  by  way  of 
the  garden,  and  by  my  own  little  turret  door,  for  fear  of 
meeting  Aunt  Harriet.  For  the  rest,  I  didn't  care  a 
rap;  I  rather  liked  having  my  hair  down. 

From  my  perch  at  the  top  of  the  tree  one  couldn't 
see  the  fireplace;  it  was  hidden  by  the  thick  growth  of 
stuff  below.  I  began  to  think  it  might  want  looking  to, 
so  scrambled  down  leisurely  towards  the  lower  regions. 
My  branch  did  not  form  one  of  the  actual  walls  of  the 
banqueting  hall;  there  was  a  smaller  branch  between, 
round  the  base  of  which  one  had  to  dodge  in  order  to 
get  in  or  out.  I  ducked  my  head,  and  swung  myself 
round  this  branch,  and  then  stood  still,  and  gasped;  for 
there,  sitting  on  Arthur's  Seat,  and  quietly  smoking  a 
cigarette,  was  Mr.  Grayle! 

I  grabbed  at  my  hair,  in  a  feeble,  spasmodic  attempt 
to  fasten  it  up,  but  of  course  it  was  utterly  futile — no 
pins.  I  am  sure  I  got  very  red,  and  looked  generally 
idiotic;  I  know  I  felt  it. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  get  here?"  I  asked  at  length, 
for  he  did  nothing  but  sit  there  grinning. 

"I  came  up  by  a  new  way,"  he  said.  "I  will  show 
you  afterwards;  it's  not  very  difficult.  You  see  it  was 
on  the  other  side  of  the  tree  to  where  you  were,  so  you 
never  noticed  me." 

"Did  you  see  me  up  there?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  I  saw  you;  but  I  saw  your  hat  and  jacket  first; 
it  was  that  that  attracted  me." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you  have  any  business  to  come 
without  being  asked;  this  is  my  tree." 

I  was  rather  angry  at  being  caught  with  my  hair 
down. 

"You    forget,"   he    said,    laughing — he   was   always 


86  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

laughing,  and  generally  at  me,  I  think — "you  forget, 
you  gave  me  a  branch  all  to  myself." 

"Did  I?"  I  said.  "Well,  you  had  better  go  there, 
then." 

"But,"  he  said,  "I  remember  you  carefully  explaining 
to  me  that  all  tenants  of  branches  had  a  common  right 
to  the  use  of  the  banqueting  hall." 

"Very  well,  then,  you  can  stay  here,  and  I'll  go  to 
my  branch  again." 

"And  who's  going  to  keep  up  the  fire?" 

"You  can,  if  you  like;  I  shan't!" 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  said;  "you  see,  I  am  stoker 
by  appointment  to  the  Queen  Dryad." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  "good-bye." 

I  went  right  up  my  branch  again,  and  sat  there. 
I  could  see  Mr.  Grayle  climbing  about,  getting  sticks. 
He  worked  very  hard,  and  I  began  to  feel  slightly 
ashamed  of  myself  for  being  so  cross.  I  also  wanted 
rather  to  come  down  and  help. 

"I  say,  stoker!"  I  shouted. 

"Yes." 

"Just  get  down  and  see  if  you  can  find  my  hairpins; 
they're  somewhere  among  the  leaves  under  the  tree." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "in  that  case  they're  as  good  as 
found.  The  leaves  are  only  two  feet  deep,  and  a  hair- 
pin's a  thing  one  can't  possibly  miss." 

However,  he  went  down  and  poked  about,  and  actu- 
ally did  find  one. 

"Well  done!"  I  cried,  "now  for  the  others." 

"Oh,  the  others  are  gone,"  he  said,  lazily;  "you  will 
have  to  do  with  this  one." 

He  swung  himself  up  into  the  tree,  and  began  coming 
up  my  branch. 


STOKER   AND    HAMADRYAD  87 

"What  are  you  doing?"  I  cried.  "How  dare  you 
come  into  a  lady's  branch  like  this?  Go  away!" 

"I  was  bringing  you  your  hairpin,"  he  said,  coolly. 

"Oh,  bother  the  hairpin!     What's  the  use  of  one?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  he  said.  "Better  than 
nothing,  I  suppose." 

"No,  that's  just  what  it  isn't.  You  can  keep  it! 
I  don't  want  it." 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  "I  will." 

He  put  it  very  slowly  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and 
began  climbing  up  the  branch. 

"Where  are  you  coming?"  I  cried.  "Do  you  know 
you're  trespassing?  Go  away!  It's  most  ungentlemanly!" 

"I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  Miss  Dryad,"  he 
said,  laughing  in  the  most  irritating  manner. 

"Do  you?  Well,  you  can  go  to  your  own  branch  and 
talk." 

"Oh,  no;  that  would  make  us  hoarse.  This  is  much 
more  comfortable." 

"I  think  you  are  perfectly  odious!"  I  said.  "I  don't 
think  I  ever  met  any  one  quite  so  horrid!" 

He  laughed  again,  and  came  up  a  branch  or  two 
higher.  I  was  like  a  rat  in  a  trap;  there  was  no  escape. 
I  was  already  as  high  as  I  could  get. 

"Well?"  he  said,  looking  up  at  me. 

I  took  no  notice  whatever.  I  turned  my  back  as 
much  as  I  could  without  falling  off,  and  stared  across  in 
the  direction  of  Greystoke.  We  must  have  sat  like  this 
in  dead  silence  for  about  ten  minutes.  Then,  for  no 
reason  at  all,  I  suddenly  burst  out  laughing.  It  was 
perfectly  idiotic,  of  course,  and  goodness  knows  why  I 
did  it,  except  that  it  was  so  silly  sitting  there  like  a 
couple  of  owls.  He  laughed,  too,  of  course,  and  after 


88  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

that  it  was  no  use  pretending  to  be  angry,  so  I  gave  it 
up. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  this  time,  Miss  Dryad?" 
he  asked. 

"Where  have  I  been!  Where  have  you  been,  you 
mean.  I  haven't  been  anywhere." 

"Five  times  have  I  had  occasion  to  pass  this  tree 
during  the  last  month,  but  never  once  has  there  been 
any  sign  of  a  hamadryad  sporting  about  among  the 
branches." 

"Oh,  I  haven't  been  here  much  for  the  last  month  or 
so.  I  have  had  other  things  to  do;  but  before  that  I 
was  here  pretty  often." 

"That  must  have  been  when  I  was  in  Norfolk.  I  went 
there  for  a  fortnight's  shooting  about  then." 

"Oh!" 

"And  during  the  rest  of  this  month,  are  you  likely  to 
have — other  things  to  do,  do  you  suppose?" 

"Oh,  /don't  know;  how  can  I  tell?" 

"Because  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  the 
Duke's  business  will  necessitate  my  coming  this  way 
pretty  near  every  day." 

"Stoker,  the  fire's  going  out;  I  can  tell  by  the 
smoke." 

"Bother  the  fire!"  said  the  stoker. 

"If  you  abuse  my  fire,  I  shall  have  to  discharge  you." 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  you  wouldn't  do  that,"  he  said.  "If 
you  did,  it  would  make  me  very,  very  unhappy." 

"Well,  then,  go  down  and  stoke.  I  think  you  are 
rather  dull  to-day." 

He  went  like  a  lamb. 

"I  am  coming  down,  too,"  I  called  out  after  him. 
"It's  time  for  me  to  go  home." 


STOKER   AND    HAMADRYAD  89 

Now,  I  have  already  explained  that  in  order  to  get 
from  the  base  of  my  branch  to  the  central  platform, 
known  as  the  banqueting  hall,  it  was  necessary  to  swing 
round  a  smaller  branch  that  stood  in  the  way — a  miser- 
able thing,  no  bigger  than  a  full-grown  birch-tree,  and 
not  considered  worthy  of  either  a  name  or  a  tenant — it 
was  merely  a  supplier  of  fuel.  There  was  nothing  the 
least  difficult  in  this  performance;  the  only  thing  was, 
one  had  to  hold  on  with  the  left  hand  and  swing  round 
with  a  jerk.  Whether  what  now  took  place  was  entirely 
accidental  or  not,  I  don't  know;  I  have  my  suspicions 
that  it  was  not;  but  however  that  may  be,  what  hap- 
pened was  that  I  swung  myself  with  a  tremendous  bang 
right  round  into  Mr.  Grayle's  very  arms.  He  was  stand- 
ing, of  course,  on  the  platform,  out  of  sight  of  me,  till  I 
came  with  a  bump  up  against  him.  The  worst  of  it  was, 
that  instead  of  getting  out  of  the  way  and  apologising, 
and  hoping  I  was  not  hurt,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  he  held 
me  tight  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  me  half  a  dozen  times 
before  I  could  get  away.  I  was  furious. 

"You  brute!"  I  cried,  "you  pig!  I  shall  never  speak 
to  you  again!" 

He  fell  back,  and  looked  perfectly  miserable.  I  have 
never  seen  any  one  look  quite  so  ashamed ;  I  shouldn't 
have  thought  Mr.  Grayle  could  have  looked  so  ashamed. 

"Miss  de  Metrier,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  deserve  all  the 
names  you  have  called  me,  and  more;  but  it  was  an  acci- 
dent. I  give  you  my  word  it  was  a  pure  accident.  I  am 
very  sorry;  I  can  say  nothing  more." 

As  if  any  one  could  kiss  one  half  a  dozen  times  by 
accident! 

"Mr.  Grayle,"  I  said,  "you  have  behaved  perfectly 
disgracefully,  and  I  shall  never  speak  to  you  again." 


90  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"I  don't  deserve  that  you  should,"  he  said,  humbly. 
"Still,  if  you  knew  all  that  it  would  mean  to  me  if  you 
didn't,  you  might  not  be  quite  so  hard  on  me." 

Poor  fellow!  he  did  look  so  wretched.  I  felt  sorry  I 
had  called  him  a  pig. 

"Do  you  really  mean  that  my  offence  has  been  so 
great  that  you  can  never  speak  to  me  again?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  I  said,  hotly,  and  holding  myself  very 
stiff;  I  didn't  mean  it,  of  course,  but  I  felt  I  must  keep 
up  my  dignity. 

"Then  I  will  go,"  he  said,  meekly.  "But  before  I 
go,  I  must  tell  you  this."  He  paused  as  though  he  had 
a  difficulty  in  finding  words.  "What  I  did,  unpardon- 
able though  it  was,  I  only  did  because — what  I  mean  is, 
I  would  sooner  have  died  than  deliberately  do  anything 
to  hurt  or  annoy  you.  Will  you  believe  this?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  very  low,  and  looking  away. 

I  felt  pretty  wretched  myself.  I  longed  to  tell  him 
that  I  hadn't  really  minded  very  much,  but  of  course  I 
couldn't  do  that.  So  I  stiffened  my  back,  and  frowned 
hard  at  the  red  embers  in  the  fireplace. 

"I  would  sooner  die  than  hurt  you,"  he  went  on,  in 
an  odd  sort  of  voice,  "because,  you  know,  you  are 
dearer  to  me  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  Good- 
bye." 

He  dropped  down  into  the  thick  leaves  below,  and 
strode  away  without  once  looking  back.  The  look  on 
his  face  made  me  feel  perfectly  miserable.  I  stood 
thinking  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  I  dropped  down 
after  him,  and  followed — yes,  actually  followed  him! 
I  could  not  let  him  go  like  that.  He  had  gone  a  good 
way,  and  I  had  to  run  to  catch  him  up.  He  never 
turned  till  I  was  close  upon  him,  hot,  and  red,  and  pant- 


STOKER   AND    HAMADRYAD  91 

ing.  I  felt  myself  going  scarlet,  and  wished  I  had 
stayed  in  the  tree,  but  it  was  too  late  now. 

"Mr.  Grayle,"  I  said,  looking  at  his  boots,  "I  am 
sorry  I — called  you  a  pig." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  for  what  seemed  an  age. 
I  knew  his  eyes  were  on  my  face,  but  I  kept  on  looking 
at  his  boots  as  long  as  I  could.  At  last — almost  in  spite 
of  myself — I  looked  up,  and  there  he  was  smiling  at  me 
with  the  old  look  I  knew  so  well.  I  was  so  glad  to  see 
it  again  that  I  suppose  I  smiled,  too.  Anyhow,  he 
caught  me  by  the  two  hands,  and  looking  straight  into 
my  eyes,  said:  "Little  Dryad,  if  you  are  sorry,  you  must 
care  a  little;  do  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said,  "perhaps  I  do;  I  have  never 
thought  about  it." 

Which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  was  not  quite  true,  for  I 
had  thought  about  it  a  good  deal,  and  I  knew  that  I  did 
care  very  much. 

"Little  Dryad,"  he  said,  still  holding  my  hands,  "do 
you  think  you  could  ever  care  enough  to  marry  a  poor, 
penniless  land-agent?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said;  "please  let  me  go." 

I  tugged  at  my  hands,  but  he  held  them  fast,  and 
drew  me  closer. 

"Say  yes,"  he  whispered,  "and  I  will  let  you  go." 

I  don't  think  I  did  say  yes,  but  he  took  it  for  granted, 
and  he  certainly  did  not  let  me  go — at  least  not  for 
another  ten  minutes. 

"Wherever  have  you  been,  Josephine,"  said  my  aunt, 
when  I  arrived  half  an  hour  late  for  luncheon. 

"I  have  been  in  Flexham  Wood,  Aunt  Harriet,"  I 
said,  "and  I  am  afraid  I  quite  forgot  all  about  luncheon. ' ' 
Which  was  strictly  true. 


CHAPTER    XI 

MORE    EXPLOSIONS 

X  1  fHAT  words  can  describe  the  glory  of  the  days  that 
*  followed?  If  Selworth  was  Paradise  before,  what 
was  it  now?  If  Inversnaid  before  had  been  a  thing  to 
dream  of,  what  was  to  be  said  of  it  now?  The  joy  of  it 
all  was  so  immense  that  it  positively  hurt.  I  hardly  knew 
what  to  do  to  prevent  going  mad  from  sheer  happiness. 
That  I  should  have  gained  the  love  of  such  a  man  as 
Sydney  Grayle  seemed  a  thing  so  utterly  incredible  that 
I  had  to  go  to  Inversnaid  every  morning  to  make  sure  if 
it  was  true.  While  I  was  there,  there  was  no  further 
room  for  doubt  about  it;  but  no  sooner  had  I  got  home 
again  than  the  thing  seemed  too  impossibly  good  to  be 
true.  It  was  the  doubt  about  my  own  attractions  that 
made  me  so  unbelieving.  What  in  the  world  could  he 
see  in  a  girl  like  me?  It  must  be  the  new  clothes,  I 
thought.  I  felt  positive  he  would  never  have  proposed 
to  me  in  my  old  white  stockings.  I  asked  him  about 
this  once,  about  a  week  afterwards,  and  he  laughed  so 
that  he  nearly  fell  off  the  tree.  I  saw  nothing  to  laugh 
at;  I  was  perfectly  serious.  I  didn't  believe  he  would 
have,  and  I  told  him  so.  No  man  would  propose  to  a 
girl  in  white  cotton  stockings.  Sydney  said — when  he 
had  done  laughing  'for  five  minutes — that  it  would  have 
made  no  difference  if  I  had  been  in  striped  stockings  and 
buff  clothes,  marked  with  a  broad  arrow.  I  asked  him 

93 


MORE   EXPLOSIONS  93 

what  it  was  he  liked  in  me,  and  he  smiled  in  the  old 
mocking  way,  and  said  it  was  the  way  my  hair  fell  over 
my  eyes.  I  told  him  Uncle  Guy  called  me  a  Skye  ter- 
rier, and  he  seemed  rather  to  like  the  idea,  and  said  he 
would  tie  a  blue  ribbon  round  my  neck  and  lead  me 
about!  Such  drivel! 

I  used  to  go  to  the  tree  every  morning  now,  but  we 
lit  no  more  fires,  the  smoke  showed  too  much.  Norman 
was  away  somewhere  shooting;  he  was  always  in  great 
request,  and  was  asked  about  all  over  the  place.  So  no 
one  troubled  himself  about  what  I  did  in  the  morn- 
ing, which  was  a  blessing.  We  agreed  to  say  nothing 
about  our  engagement — engagement!  how  grand  it 
sounded! — at  least  not  for  the  present.  We  thought 
people  might  try  and  stop  our  meeting  in  the  tree,  or 
come  with  us  and  watch  us,  or  drag  us  about  to  places, 
and  make  a  sort  of  show  of  us,  and  spoil  everything. 

"We'll  tell  them  all  about  it  presently,"  Sydney  said, 
"there's  no  hurry." 

I  was  in  no  hurry.  There  was  an  enormous  sweet- 
ness in  our  secret  being  a  secret;  and  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  was  just  the  least  bit  afraid  of  what  the  others  might 
say,  especially  Aunt  Harriet.  I  had  a  sort  of  idea  it  was 
not  usual  to  get  engaged  to  men  you  had  only  met  at 
the  top  of  a  tree;  a  man,  too,  that  you  had  never  been 
introduced  to,  or  anything. 

Sydney  said  we  could  get  married  in  the  spring.  He 
asked  who  my  guardians  were,  and  I  said  I  didn't  think 
I  had  any,  but  that  my  aunts  at  Chelmsford  were  the 
only  people  whose  opinion  I  should  bother  about.  I 
should  have  loved  to  have  taken  him  off  straight  away, 
and  shown  him  to  them,  but  not  the  Selworth  people. 

Then  I  told  him  very  seriously  that  I  was  absolutely 


94  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

without  a  penny  in  the  world — and,  what  was  more,  that 
I  never  could  by  any  possibility  have  one.  And  then, 
for  about  two  minutes,  he  too  was  very  serious,  and  told 
me  that  he,  too,  had  absolutely  nothing  but  what  he  got 
from  his  agency;  and  that  any  day  he  might  be  turned 
off,  or  the  Duke  might  die,  and  Lord  Barham  not  care 
about  keeping  him  on,  in  which  case  he  would  be  little 
better  than  a  beggar.  And  then  he  said,  almost 
solemnly,  that  he  thought  it  was  almost  a  sin  to  ask  any 
girl  to  marry  a  man  in  such  a  position,  and  that  if  I 
were  not  quite  sure  of  myself  he  would  set  me  free,  and 
go  away  and  never  see  me  again.  And  I  got  very  angry 
and  offended,  and  told  him  he  was  at  perfect  liberty  to 
back  out  of  it  if  he  wanted  to,  and  that  I  should  not  care 
tuppence  if  he  did;  and  we  very  near  had  a  bad  quar- 
rel, but  in  the  end  things  came  right  again,  as  they  have 
a  way  of  doing — at  the  beginning. 

I  suppose  no  one  since  the  beginning  of  the  world 
has  ever  been  quite  so  happy  as  we  were.  They  couldn't 
have  been.  As  to  me,  my  spirits  were  so  ridiculous — 
so  idiotic,  I  might  almost  say — that  every  one  noticed  it. 
I  am  not  surprised.  I  should  have  been  very  much  sur- 
prised if  they  had  not  noticed  it.  I  was  never  given  to 
doleful  dumps — not  even  in  Chelmsford  Church — but  now 
it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  I  could  sit  still  in  a 
chair.  Whenever  I  walked  I  ran — which  sounds  Irish, 
but  is  quite  true — -and  whenever  I  rode  I  galloped;  and 
when  I  was  doing  neither  I  sang — songs  without  words 
(or  tune). 

"  Ton  my  soul,  Joe,"  said  Uncle  Guy,  "we  shall 
have  to  do  something  to  you  soon  if  you  go  on  like  this — 
put  you  on  bread  and  water,  or  make  you  smoke  opium 
or  something.  What  right  have  you,  or  any  one  else,  to 


MORE   EXPLOSIONS  95 

look  so  ridiculously  well,  and  have  such  ridiculously  high 
spirits?  How  do  you  manage  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said,  laughing.  "I  can't  help  it. 
I  suppose  it's  being  at  Selworth. " 

"You  like  Selworth,  then,  eh?" 

"Like  it!     I  love  it!" 

I  saw  my  uncle  shoot  a  quick  glance  at  Father 
Terence,  and  I  also  saw  Father  Terence  smile  back  an 
answering  glance  at  my  uncle.  I  wondered  what  their 
private  joke  was. 

"Well,  I  hardly  call  it  decent — 'pon  my  word,  I 
don't — with  poor  gouty  old  crocks  like  me  about.  You 
ought  to  have  some  consideration  for  our  feelings." 

"Yes,  Josephine,  and  for  our  poor  nerves,"  chimed 
in  Aunt  Harriet,  taking  him  au  pied  de  la  lettre,  as  she 
would  have  called  it;  "there  are  times  when  I  really  feel 
quite  accablee  by  your  excessive  vigour." 

She  spoke  almost  contemptuously.  I  really  believe 
she  thought  nerves  were  as  necessary  to  a  well-bred  per- 
son as  a  hair-brush. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  I  said;  "I  shall  take  to  strong  tea 
and  strong  cigars.  Perhaps  that  will  do  me  good." 

"I  believe  you  are  quite  capable  of  it,  my  dear,"  said 
my  aunt,  icily. 

If  we  had  only  known,  there  was  no  need  of  any  of 
these  things  to  blot  out  my  spirits,  and  bring  me  down 
to  a  proper  state  of  nervous  gentility.  Mercifully,  how- 
ever, we  are  not  prophets.  There  was  not  a  single  cloud 
in  my  sky  just  then.  How  could  I  tell  of  the  black 
storm  gathering  below  the  horizon?  The  first  rumble 
of  it  came  the  very  next  day. 

Sydney  and  I  had  been  for  our  usual  two  hours  in  the 
tree,  and  we  were  standing  at  the  top  of  the  bank,  close 


96  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

to  the  end  of  the  drawbridge,  saying  good-bye,  when  a 
man  on  horseback  came  suddenly  into  sight,  trotting 
briskly  up  the  hill  from  the  direction  of  the  Plain.  It 
was  Uncle  Guy.  Sydney  and  I  stood  like  statues.  I 
don't  think  at  first  my  uncle  saw  who  it  was.  He  came 
trotting  up  with  his  broad  red  face  smiling  good-humour- 
edly,  and  I  thought  what  a  perfect  type  he  looked  of  an 
English  country  gentleman.  He  was  short-sighted  with- 
out his  glasses,  and  he  was  close  on  to  us  before  he  real- 
ised who  we  were.  Then  he  pulled  up  with  a  jerk,  and 
sat  there  staring  with  his  mouth  wide  open.  I  was  pre- 
pared for  a  lecture,  but  I  was  not  in  the  least  ashamed; 
in  fact,  I  was  rather  proud,  to  tell  the  truth,  that  he 
should  see  me  with  the  man  whose  love  I  had  gained. 
So  I  waited,  with  the  smile  on  my  face  of  a  person  who 
has  been  caught  out  in  an  innocent  fraud.  But  the 
smile  did  not  last  long.  Uncle  Guy  looked  as  if  he  had 
seen  a  ghost;  his  jolly  face  went  as  white  as  a  cloth,  and 
he  clutched  with  one  hand  at  the  pommel  of  his  saddle. 

"What's  all  this?"  he  said. 

The  words  came  out  very  quick  and  faint,  as  though 
he  were  short  of  breath. 

"This  is  .Mr.  Grayle,  uncle,"  I  said,  smiling  as  well 
as  I  could. 

"Yes,  I  know  Mr.  Grayle,"  he  said.  His  voice  was 
stronger,  and  the  colour  was  slowly  coming  back  to  his 
face.  "And  may  I  ask  to  what  I  owe  the  pleasure  of 
Mr.  Grayle's  presence  in  my  park?" 

I  gave  a  start,  and  looked  up  in  horror.  It  was  not 
so  much  the  words,  as  the  tone  of  voice.  He  was  speak- 
ing through  his  teeth,  and  in  a  slow  and  strained  voice 
that  sounded  dreadful.  His  eyes  seemed  to  have  got 
quite  close  together  and  very  small,  and  on  his  forehead 


MORE    EXPLOSIONS  97 

there  stood  out  the  great  V-shaped  vein  that  I  remem- 
bered noticing  that  terrible  luncheon  after  I  had  been 
to  Mrs.  Beddington's. 

"I  was  not  aware  that  you  excluded  people  from 
your  park,  Mr.  de  Metrier,"  Sydney  said,  quietly. 

"No,  sir;  but  I  exclude  poachers!"  His  voice  was 
raised  now,  almost  to  a  shout,  and  the  look  on  his  face 
was  appalling.  , 

"Certainly,"  said  Sydney,  laughing;  "that  is  cus- 
tomary in  most  parks." 

His  self-control  was  beautiful.  He  looked  so  splen- 
didly calm  beside  the  other.  Uncle  Guy  pulled  out  a 
bandanna  and  mopped  his  face. 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  laughed.  "Very  good,  very  good — 
customary  in  most  parks — so  it  is — so  it  is!  No  doubt 
you  are  bothered  at  Ashby  just  the  same  as  we  are 
here;  damnable  country  for  poachers — worst  in  Eng- 
land." 

He  went  on  holding  his  handkerchief  to  his  head  till 
I  thought  he  must  be  ill;  then  suddenly  he  said: 

"By  the  way,  let  me  introduce  my  niece  to  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sydney,  pleasantly,  "I  have  made 
Miss  de  Metrier's  acquaintance." 

"Quite  so — quite  so — almost  old  friends,  no  doubt — 
sorry  I  must  carry  her  off — luncheon  time,  you  know — 
mustn't  be  late,  mustn't  be  late — pitched  into  hot  by 
her  ladyship  if  one  is,  you  know.  Ha!  ha!" 

His  face  was  quite  white  again,  and  looked  so  ghastly 
that  I  was  frightened. 

"Come  along,  Josephine ;  we  must  trot  off  now.  Good 
day,  Mr.  Grayle. " 

I  walked  by  the  side  of  his  horse,  and  we  moved 
slowly  away  towards  the  house.  We  went  in  dead  silence 


98  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

till  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill,  some  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  Then  he  stopped  his  horse  and  faced  me. 

"So,"  he  said,  speaking  through  his  teeth  again,  "you 
dear  little  unsophisticated  thing,  you  sweet  innocent 
babe,  you  artless  child  of  nature,  you  shameless  aban- 
doned jade,  this  is  the  way  you  spend  your  mornings,  is 
it? — running  about  after  men  in  the  woods?" 

"I  hope  I  haven't  done  anything  wrong,  uncle,"  I 
said.  I  was  perfectly  terrified  by  his  manner.  He 
looked  like  a  madman.  * 

"Oh,  dear,  no,  sweet  Miss  Innocence!  nothing  the 
least  wrong — lying  to  your  aunt  and  me  day  after  day — 
telling  us  you  were  exploring  the  woods  and  what  not — 
and  all  the  while  you  were  carrying  on  with  this  man. 
You  worthless  little  baggage,  you — you  want  whipping, 
that's  what  you  want!  How  long  have  you  known  this 
fellow?" 

"Oh,  several  weeks." 

"Several  weeks!  Several  weeks!  vLord  of  mercy! 
Several  weeks!  And  this  is  your  return  for  all  our  kind- 
ness to  you,  is  it?  This  is  the  sort  of  girl  I  have  brought 
here  as  a  companion  to  my  daughter,  is  it?  Oh!  you — 
you  damned  little  viper!" 

I  thought  he  was  going  to  hit  me.  He  flourished  the 
cane  in  his  hand  over  my  head  and  back,  and  once  I 
actually  shut  my  eyes  and  crouched,  expecting  the  blow. 
But  it  never  came.  I  was  spared  that.  The  man  was 
clearly  out  of  his  mind,  and  he  had  to  hit  something,  so 
he  hit  the  poor  horse.  It  was  a  beautiful  thorough- 
bred— one  that  had  come  from  his  racing-stables — and 
at  this  strange  treatment  it  bounded  forward,  with  its 
head  in  the  air,  and  broke  into  a  gallop.  Again  and 
again  he  hit  it  till  the  cane  broke  in  his  hand,  and  he 


MORE   EXPLOSIONS  99 

was  carried  out  of  my  sight.  The  next  minute  I  saw 
him  again,  galloping  like  a  mad  thing  across  the  Plain. 

Uncle  Guy  did  not  appear  at  luncheon  that  day;  he 
had  some  taken  to  his  own  room.  As  for  me,  I  was  still 
so  frightened,  and  shaken,  and  miserable,  that  I  could 
neither  eat  nor  talk.  What  had  I  done  that  was  so 
dreadful?  I  would  have  given  anything  to  know.  For 
that  I  had  done  something  which  was  very  bad  indeed  I 
had  not  the  slightest  doubt.  Uncle  Guy  would  never 
have  gone  on  the  way  he  did  about  nothing. 

So  I  sat  and  puzzled  over  it,  with  a  white,  miserable 
face,  and  got  not  an  inch  nearer  the  truth  for  all  my 
puzzling.  I  felt  perfectly  wretched  at  having  so  annoyed 
my  uncle.  It  was  quite  true  what  he  had  said — that  they 
had  given  me  nothing  but  kindness  ever  since  I  had  been 
at  Selworth,  and  the  only  return  I  had  made  for  all  this 
was  to  do  something  which  had  displeased  him  so  dread- 
fully that  he  was  unable  to  come  to  luncheon.  What 
could  it  be?  As  to  the  names  he  had  called  me,  I  trou- 
bled myself  not  a  rap.  I  felt  certain  I  deserved  them  all, 
and  more.  If  I  had  not  done  something  very  bad  he 
would  certainly  not  have  been  so  angry.  None  of  the 
others  at  luncheon  knew  anything  about  it.  I  told  them 
I  had  a  headache  and  felt  sick,  which  was  perfectly  true. 
Aunt  Harriet  wanted  to  send  for  the  doctor,  and  when  I 
wouldn't  have  that,  insisted  on  my  going  to  bed  at  once, 
which  I  was  very  glad  to  do.  So  in  bed  I  stayed  all  that 
day  and  the  next.  The  doctor  came,  of  course,  and 
looked  very  wise,  and  said  I  had  got  a  chill  from  getting 
wet  feet;  and  that  afternoon  sent  up  three  bottles  of 
medicine,  which  I  emptied  out  of  the  window. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day,  to  my  amaze- 
ment, Uncle  Guy  came  to  see  me.  Poor  man!  he  looked 


ioo  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

quite  sheepish  and  ashamed.  I  longed  to  tell  him  how 
sorry  I  was  for  being  so  ungrateful  and  annoying  him 
so,  but  he  never  gave  me  the  chance.  He  talked  inces- 
santly from  the  moment  he  came  in,  and  seemed  so 
anxious  to  make  it  up,  and  make  friends,  and  forget  all 
about  what  had  happened  the  day  before,  that  after  the 
first  five  minutes  I  couldn't  have  said  anything  about  it 
to  save  my  life. 

"Not  much  amiss,  little  Joe?"  he  said.  "That's  right, 
that's  right.  Couldn't  do  without  you  downstairs,  you 
know — couldn't  do  without  you,  damme  no — miss  that 
bonnie  face  of  yours  terribly.  We'll  send  you  up  some 
champagne  to-night — nothing  like  champagne  to  put  any 
one  on  their  feet  again.  Can't  take  it  myself — gout,  you 
know — plays  the  very  dickens  with  me — so  does  port, 
worse  luck!  so  does  port — temper  goes  wrong,  you 
know — damnably  wrong — always  had  the  worst  temper 
in  Europe — means  nothing,  you  know — soon  over  and  all 
that,  but  the  very  devil  while  it  lasts — got  me  into  many 
a  tight  place — ha!  ha!  ha!  many  a  tight  place — Gad! 
yes.  Nobody  minds  it,  though,  who  knows  me — not  a 
rap!  'Poor,  peppery  old  devil!'  they  say.  'All  bark,  no 
bite;  not  a  bad-hearted  old  chap  at  bottom — always  sorry 
after  he  has  broken  out.'  Well,  well,  little  niece,  I  must 
be  trotting  off — glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well — does 
one  good  to  see  you — does  us  all  good  to  see  you,  Gad! 
yes — don't  know  what  we  should  do  without  you — 
brighten  up  the  whole  place.  As  to  Norman,  blest  if  I 
don't  believe  the  boy  would  stand  on  his  head  for  a  week 
to  please  you;  never  saw  any  one  so  gone — never;  quite 
comical  it  is.  Norman,  too,  of  all  people!  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Norman,  that  all  the  girls  in  London  have  been  setting 
their  caps  at  these  last  five  years!  Never  would  look  at 


MORE    EXPLOSIONS  101 

them — never  cared  a  snap  of  his  fingers  for  any  girl  that 
lived — and  now  to  be  bowled  over  neck  and  heels  by  a 
little  minx  of  a  cousin.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Gad!  though,  I 
don't  blame  him — not  I.  Well,  good-bye,  little  girl; 
pitch  into  that  champagne  well,  and  come  down  as  soon 
as  ever  you  can — place  don't  seem  the  same  without 
you — all  the  brightness  gone — dull  as  ditch-water  now — 
dull  as  ditch-water!" 

He  waved  his  hand,  and  went  shuffling  out  with  a  nod 
and  a  smile.  Poor  old  uncle!  he  was  like  a  big  child 
with  his  roundabout  apology.  I  felt  so  touched  I  almost 
cried;  but  I  didn't.  I  did  something  far  more  sensible, 
for  I  rang  the  bell,  and  told  Griffiths  I  was  quite  well, 
and  going  to  get  up  at  once.  Griffiths  looked  relieved. 
She  was  not  fond  of  waiting  on  me,  and,  goodness 
knows,  I  didn't  trouble  her  much  when  I  was  well.  Of 
course,  when  I  was  in  bed  it  was  different;  she  had  to  be 
there  more  or  less. 

"When  will  you  have  your  hot  water,  miss?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh,  now,  please,"  I  said;    'I  shall  get  up  at  once." 

"Very  good,  miss,"  she  said,  looking  more  like  an 
old  vinegar  pot  than  usual.  I  forgot  till  afterwards  that 
it  was  just  the  servants'  tea-time.  However,  I  needn't 
have  worried.  She  took  pretty  good  care  to  have  her 
tea  comfortably,  and  without  hurrying,  before  she 
thought  of  bringing  me  my  things.  I  wished  to  good- 
ness Aunt  Harriet  would  have  let  one  of  the  housemaids 
look  after  me,  or  even  Sophie's  maid;  I  couldn't  stand 
old  Griffiths.  I  had  tried  hard  to  like  her  at  first,  but  it 
was  no  good.  She  seemed  to  be  thinking  the  whole  time 
she  was  with  me  what  a  hardship  it  was,  and  how  unin- 
teresting a  person  I  was  to  look  after,  with  my  few  poor 


102  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

dresses,  and  my  one  crystal  locket  as  my  entire  stock  of 
jewellery.  I  suppose  she  thought  I  was  too  poor  to  tip 
her  well  at  the  end,  which,  of  course,  I  was. 

So  Griffiths  and  I  didn't  quite  hit  it  off.  I  am  sure  she 
thought  me  a  heathen,  too,  for  not  going  to  chapel  in 
the  mornings;  she  told  me  as  much  a  dozen  times. 
Well,  if  she  was  a  type  of  Christian,  I  would  sooner  be  a 
heathen  any  day.  However,  enough  of  old  Griffiths. 

They  were  all  so  pleased  to  see  me  down,  and  so  kind 
and  nice,  and  Uncle  Guy  gave  us  all  champagne  at  din- 
ner— which,  by  the  way,  he  was  not  over  fond  of  doing 
unless  there  were  visitors — and  Father  Terence  got 
extremely  convivial,  and  Aunt  Harriet  made  at  least  two 
jokes,  and  altogether  it  was  one  of  the  pleasantest  even- 
ings we  had  had  since  I  came. 


CHAPTER   XII 

I   HAVE  A   BIRTHDAY 

twelfth  of  December  was  my  birthday.  I  had 
said  nothing  about  it  myself,  and  had  no  idea  the 
others  knew.  So  when  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  and 
was  greeted  with  a  chorus  of  "Many  happy  returns!" 
and  with  much  kissing,  and  many  little  packets  done  up 
in  silver  paper  and  tied  round  with  blue  ribbon,  it  quite 
took  my  breath  away.  Norman  gave  me  nothing,  but 
was  not  behind  with  the  rest,  I  remember. 

It  was  a  glorious  day,  still  and  bright  and  frosty. 
From  the  dining-room  windows  one  could  see  a  thin  mist 
still  hanging  over  the  Plain,  and  the  deer  moving  about 
in  it  like  ghosts.  Over  the  top  of  the  mist,  and  stand- 
ing out  clear  and  crisp  in  the  sunshine  were  the  Flex- 
ham  Woods  on  the  hill,  a  mile  away;  and  higher  still,  a 
huge  procession  of  rooks  were  slowly  plodding  across  the 
sky,  filling  the  still,  silent  air  with  their  cries.  A  grand 
day  for  a  birthday,  I  thought;  a  grand  day  to  be  alive 
at  all,  at  any  age,  but  a  particularly  grand  day  at  nine- 
teen. 

There  were  two  long  letters  with  the  Chelmsford  post- 
mark— two  dear,  sweet  letters,  telling  of  two  little  pres- 
ents laboriously  worked  by  four  loving  old  hands,  which 
presents,  alas!  had  not  come.  And  there  was  a  large 
white  cake  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  with  nineteen  can- 
dles round  it  (not  to  be  lighted  till  tea-time),  and  "Joe" 


104  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

on  top,  in  twisted  pink  letters.  I  knew  as  soon  as  I  saw 
it  who  had  given  orders  about  that  cake;  no  one  but 
Uncle  Guy  would  have  had  "Joe"  put  on  it. 

I  wondered  what  Norman  was  going  to  give  me,  and 
why  he  was  keeping  his  present  back.  Of  course,  I 
knew  he  was  going  to  give  me  something;  he  was  won- 
derfully generous  at  all  times,  and  had  already  given  me 
more  that  one  present;  so  that  on  a  birthday  it  was  a 
certainty;  but  why  keep  it  back? 

"Will  you  come  for  a  walk,  Joe?"  he  asked  after 
breakfast. 

"Of  course,  I  will,"  I  said.  "Where  shall  we  go — 
the  'Marsh'?" 

"No;  I  want  to  take  you  my  way  to-day;  you  have 
done  leader  often  enough.  I  believe  there's  at  least  half 
of  the  park  that  you  know  nothing  about." 

"All  right,"  I  said.  "I  don't  care  where  we  go,  as 
long  as  we  go  somewhere.  It's  a  sin  to  stay  indoors  on 
a  day  like  this.  I'll  go  and  put  on  my  hat." 

"All  right,"  he  said;  "no  hurry." 

He  took  me  across  the  Plain,  but  bearing  away  to  the 
left.  Flexham  Wood  and  Inversnaid  and  the  old  Manor 
House  all  lay  away  to  the  right.  He  was  quite  right;  I 
hardly  ever  came  that  way — why,  I  don't  know.  I  sup- 
pose I  preferred  sticking  to  old  friends.  He  took  me 
round  the  shoulder  of  the  hill,  and  up  the  glen  beyond — 
the  narrow  glen  that  cuts  the  wood  in  two.  After  we 
had  gone  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  this,  we  turned  to 
the  left  up  the  hill  into  the  wood.  I  had  never  been 
near  this  part  of  the  park  before ;  it  was  too  far  away 
for  comfort.  I  remember  thinking,  as  we  walked,  that 
the  entrance  to  Dante's  Inferno  ought  certainly  to  have 
been  here,  instead  of  in  prosy  little  Marigold  Marsh.  It 


I    HAVE   A   BIRTHDAY  105 

was  a  huge,  gloomy,  silent  beech  wood,  the  trunks  of  the 
trees  white  and  shiny  with  age,  and  towering  up  into  the 
very  sky;  underneath,  of  course,  bare  of  anything  but 
the  red  carpet  of  leaves.  Here  and  there  among  the 
trees  were  strange  little  ponds  of  black  rain-water, 
choked  up  with  leaves. 

We  climbed  and  climbed,  and  then  quite  suddenly 
came  upon  a  place  the  existence  of  which  I  had  never 
even  dreamt  of.  This  was  a  kind  of  knob  or  mound 
bulging  up  in  the  middle  of  the  wood;  the  trees  formed 
a  clean  circle  round  it,  and  seven  avenues  starred  out- 
wards, showing  far-off  glimpses  of  the  park.  It  simply 
took  my  breath  away,  it  was  so  beautiful!  One  looked 
through  long  dark  lanes  of  trees  down  on  to  the  sunlit 
plains  beyond.  One  of  them  pointed  straight  to  the 
house  itself,  two  miles  away;  another  showed  the  whole 
length  of  the  lake  shimmering  in  the  sun,  and  beyond, 
again,  the  double  towers  of  the  Greystoke  Lodge;  and 
another  pointed  to  the  chalk  pit  up  by  the  Welham 
Lodge;  and  another  to  the  ups  and  downs  of  woodland 
that  rose  beyond  the  old  Manor  House. 

It  was  a  glorious  scene,  only  to  be  seen  in  its  full 
beauty  in  midwinter,  when  the  trees  were  naked.  The 
mound  itself  was  covered  with  long,  coarse  yellow  grass — 
partridge  grass,  I  think,  they  call  it — and  on  this  we 
flung  ourselves  down  in  the  warm  sunshine,  and  revelled 
in  the  beauty  of  the  scene  before  us.  There  was  not  a 
sound  of  any  sort  to  break  the  silence  and  stillness  of 
the  day  except  the  distant  cawing  of  some  rooks  down 
towards  the  lake.  We  neither  of  us  spoke  for  some  time ; 
then  Norman  said: 

"It's  a  fine  view,  isn't  it?" 

"Heavenly!"  I  said. 


io6  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

After  another  long  pause,  he  said : 

"It's  nice  to  think  that  all  this  will  be  mine  as  long 
as  I  live." 

"I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  I  said;  "you  lucky  fel- 
low! I  don't  believe  you  half  appreciate  it." 

"You  think  you'd  appreciate  it  better,  do  you?" 

"I  know  I  should,"  I  said,  laughing,  "infinitely.  I'm 
quite  certain  I'm  a  thousand  times  fonder  of  the  place 
than  any  of  you  are.  People  never  half  value  the  things 
they've  got." 

"Would  you  like  to  live  here,  Joe,  for  the  rest  of  your 
life?" 

"Well,  naturally,  I  should.     What  a  question!" 

"You  can  if  you  like,"  he  said,  looking  at  me. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Norman?"  said  I,  know- 
ing perfectly  well,  of  course. 

"Little  Joe,"  he  said,  taking  no  notice  of  my  ques- 
tion, "I  have  got  a  present  for  you  here;  I  do  hope  you 
will  like  it." 

He  pulled  a  small  round  parcel  from  his  pocket,  and 
put  it  in  my  hand. 

"O  Norman,"  I  said,  "it  is  good  of  you  to  think  of 
my  birthday.  I  really  didn't  want  anything.  Oh!  how 
lovely!  !!" 

It  was  a  diamond  and  ruby  half-loop  bracelet,  with  a 
true  lover's  knot  in  the  middle.  I  gasped,  and  looked 
at  Norman,  who  was  smiling  up  at  me  from  the 
grass. 

"It  is  not  "for  me,  Norman?" 

"Yes,  for  you,  my  sweet  little  cousin,  and  not  nearly 
good  enough,  either." 

"O  Norman,  I  can't  take  it." 

"Why  not?" 


I    HAVE   A   BIRTHDAY  107 

"Oh,  it's  too  much — far  too  much  for  me!  It  must 
have  cost  a  fortune." 

"Nonsense!"  he  said;  "it's  nothing  to  what  I  should 
like  to  give  you.  I  should  like  to  see  half  a  jeweller's 
shop  on  your  arms  and  neck,  and  glittering  on  the  top  of 
that  sweet  little  head  of  yours.  Will  you  let  me  get 
them,  Joe?" 

He  had  hold  of  my  hand,  and  was  drawing  me  to- 
wards him. 

"Joe,"  he  said,  "dear  little  Joe,  let  me  do  this.  I  will 
make  a  queen  of  you,  and  crown  you  with  diamonds,  and 
you  shall  reign  over  Selworth — the  Selworth  you  are  so 
fond  of — for  ever  and  ever,  as  long  as  we  live.  Say  you 
will,  Joe;  I  will  be  so  good  to  you,  and  make  you  hap- 
pier than  anybody  ever  was  before." 

I  felt  perfectly  miserable.  It  would  be  nonsense,  of 
course,  to  pretend  that  I  didn't  know  Norman  liked  me, 
but  that  he  should  want  to  marry  me  had  never  for  one 
moment  entered  into  my  head;  the  idea  was  too  prepos- 
terous— why  should  he? 

"Norman,"  I  said,  "you  can't  mean  this;  you  are 
not  serious." 

I  knew,  of  course,  he  was,  poor  fellow!  One  had 
only  to  look  at  his  face;  it  was  all  white  and  drawn. 

"Not  serious!"  he  laughed.  "Not  serious!  Heavens 
above!  I  wish  I  was  not.  I'm  sick  with  love  of  you, 
Joe — positively  sick  with  love." 

"No,  no,"  I  cried,  "you  can't  be;  it's  impossible! 
What  is  there  in  me  to  be  in  love  with?" 

"Joe,  Joe!"  he  said,  clutching  at  my  hand,  "say  it's 
all  right!  For  God's  sake,  say  it's  all  right!" 

' ' But  it's  all  wrong,  Norman — dreadfully  wrong !  Oh ! 
what  in  the  world  has  put  this  madness  into  your  head?" 


io8  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Madness!"  he  cried,  "there's  no  madness  about  it. 
Nobody  but  a  stone  could  live  in  the  same  house  with 
you,  and  not  fall  head  over  ears  in  love.  Joe,  you  will 
marry  me,  won't  you?" 

"I  can't,  Norman,"  I  said.  "I'm  dreadfully  sorry, 
but  I  can't." 

He  let  go  my  hand,  and  sat  bolt  'upright,  looking 
straight  before  him.  I  stared  away  over  at  the  lake, 
feeling  more  miserable  than  I  can  say;  it  all  seemed  so 
brutal  and  ungrateful ;  but  what  could  I  do? 

"Joe,"  he  said,  after  a  little,  speaking  very  slowly 
and  looking  the  other  way,  "if  you  only  knew  all  that 
this  meant  to  me,  and  others,  I  think  you  would  give  a 
different  answer — I  am  sure  you  would.  You  don't  dis- 
like me,  do  you?" 

"Of  course  I  don't,"  I  said;  "you  must  know  that, 
Norman.  I  like  you  ever  so  much. " 

"Then,  why  won't  you  marry  me?" 

I  was  silent.     What  could  I  say? 

"Is  it  that  fellow  Grayle?" 

"Yes,  it  is  Mr.  Grayle." 

There  was  a  long  pause.     Then  he  said: 

"Do  you  know,  Joe,  that  Grayle  is  practically  a  beg- 
gar— that  he  has  no  right  to  ask  any  girl  to  marry  him? 
I  call  it  a  selfish,  cowardly  thing  for  a  man  to  drag  a  girl 
he  pretends  to  like  into  a  life  of  starvation  and  drudgery 
— infernally  selfish!  He  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself!" 

At  this  I  am  afraid  I  forgot  to  be  sorry  for  Norman 
any  more.  I  think  I  got  very  red,  and  I  know  my  voice 
shook. 

"I  don't  care  a  bit,"  I  said,  "if  he  hasn't  a  penny  in 
the  world.  I  would  sooner  black  his  boots  than  wear 
every  diamond  you  could  buy  in  London." 


I   HAVE   A   BIRTHDAY  109 

"You  think  yourself  in  love  with  him,  then?"  he 
asked,  quietly. 

"I  would  die  for  him,"  I  said,  "willingly.  I  would 
wash  for  him,  and  cook  for  him,  and  scrub  the  steps, 
and  think  myself  the  happiest  girl  on  earth." 

"Pooh!"  he  said;  "it's  easy  talking  like  that  before- 
hand. Wait  till  you  try  a  week  of  it." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  I  said,  a  little  defiantly. 

"Joe,"  he  said,  turning  to  me  once  more,  and  catch- 
ing my  hand,  "you  are  very  young,  and  a  mere  child  in 
experience;  for  Heaven's  sake,  think  well  over  what  you 
are  doing!  What  I  am  going  to  say  sounds  vulgar  and 
snobbish  and  horrible,  but  there  is  no  help  for  it.  One 
must  speak  plainly.  Look  here!  I  can  give  you  every- 
thing in  the  world  you  can  wish  for — horses,  carriages, 
jewels,  one  of  the  finest  places  in  England,  a  house  in 
London,  balls,  operas,  everything,  in  short,  that  you  can 
imagine,  and  the  passionate,  devoted  love  of  a  man  that 
almost  any  girl  in  England  would  be  glad  to  marry. 
I  know  it's  a  horrible  thing  to  say,  but  I  must  put  things 
plainly — there's  too  much  at  stake  to  mince  matters. 
And  what  can  this  other  fellow  give  you?  A  miserable 
pittance  derived  from  an  agency  which  may  come  to  an 
end  any  day,  and  leave  him  and  you  absolute  beggars. 
Will  your  love  stand  such  a  test  as  that?  Think  of  the 
years  to  come!  Think  of  your  children!  Will  his  love 
stand  such  a  test,  do  you  think?  Love  soon  languishes 
when  the  fight  for  existence  begins.  O  Joe,  darling  lit- 
tle Joe!  my  love  for  you  is  just  as  strong  as  his.  Don't 
you  believe  in  my  love  for  you,  Joe?" 

"Yes,  Norman,  I  do.  You  would  never  have  asked 
me  to  marry  you  unless  you  loved  me,  of  course.  Why 
should  you?  I  can't  tell  you  how  dreadfully  sorry  I  am 


no  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

about  the  whole  thing.  You  must  think  me  such  a  brute, 
and  so  ungrateful,  and  all.  But,  you  see,  I  love  him, 
and  I  can't  help  myself." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  he  said. 

I  should  never  have  thought  Norman  could  have  felt 
anything  so  deeply.  I  always  looked  on  him  as  one  of 
those  light-hearted,  easy-going  sort  of  fellows  who  take 
nothing  particularly  serious.  But  here  he  was,  look- 
ing haggard  and  ghastly  as  a  ghost,  and  with  a  deep  line 
between  his  eyes;  it  was  terrible! 

"Dear  Norman,"  I  said,  taking  his  hand,  "I  am  so 
sorry.  You  have  all  been  so  good  to  me ;  it  makes  me 
wretched  to  see  you  like  this." 

"Don't  touch  me!"  he  snapped,  shaking  me  off 
roughly.  "If  you  won't  marry  me,  leave  me  alone. 
None  of  your  cursed  wheedling  tricks!" 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said,  miserably. 

"No,  no,  Joe;  I  beg  your  pardon;  I  didn't  mean 
that — honestly  I  didn't;  but  I'm  pretty  near  off  my 
head,  and  really  don't  know  what  I'm  saying,  and  that's 
the  truth." 

I  felt  like  a  murderess. 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!"  I  said.  "Why  in  the  world 
should  you  go  and  fall  in  love  with  me,  of  all  people, 
when  there  are  such  hundreds  of  infinitely  nicer  and 
prettier  girls  all  over  the  place?' '  It  seemed  such  a  pity. 

"O  Joe,  Joe!"  he  wailed,  "you  don't  know — you 
don't  know  what  utter  nonsense  you're  talking.  There's 
not  a  girl  I've  ever  seen  can  hold  a  candle  to  you." 

"Oh,  that's  absurd!"  I  said;  "think  of  all  the  beau- 
tiful girls  you  must  have  seen  in  London!" 

"You  are  more  beautiful  than  any  of  them,  Joe — a 
hundred  times  more  beautiful!" 


I   HAVE   A   BIRTHDAY  in 

"But  I'm  not!"  I  cried,  half  angrily.  "It's  ridiculous 
talking  like  that.  Everybody  knows  I  am  not  pretty. 
Aunt  Harriet  has  told  me  so  a  dozen  times." 

"Pooh!"  he  said,  laughing  scornfully;  "mother, 
indeed!  Ask  a  man,  Joe — ask  any  man.  What  does 
Grayle  say,  for  instance?" 

"Oh,  he's  prejudiced,  you  see.  A  man  in  love  doesn't 
count." 

"Joe,"  he  said,  rising  on  to  his  knees,  and  looking 
me  straight  in  the  face,  "are  you  absolutely  sure  of  your 
own  mind,  do  you  think?" 

"Yes,  Norman,  quite  sure;  I  shall  never  change." 

"Very  well,  then,  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said. 
Shall  we  make  a  move?" 

We  walked  for  a  long  way  in  silence;  what  was  there 
to  talk  about?  I  kept  thinking  what  a  wretched  thing 
this  was  to  have  happened  on  my  birthday,  and  how  nice 
it  would  be  if  one  could  wipe  out  the  last  hour,  and  go 
on  just  as  we  had  done  before.  But,  of  course,  that  was 
hopeless;  things  could  never  be  the  same  again  now. 

Suddenly  Norman  said: 

"You  will  keep  this  little  bracelet  and  wear  it,  Joe, 
won't  you?  It's  the  least  you  can  do  for  me." 

"I  don't  think  I  ought,"  I  said;  "it's  too  much. 
And,  besides — there's  that  thing  in  the  middle." 

"Oh,  bother  the  thing  in  the  middle;  why,  even 
bridesmaids  get  that  on  their  lockets  and  things.  It 
won't  hurt  you." 

"I  think  it  would  look  odd,  don't  you?" 

"No,  not  a  bit.  I  think  it's  the  least  you  can  do  for 
me  under  the  circumstances." 

"Well,  if  you  put  it  that  way,  I  suppose  I  must,"  I 
said,  trying  to  get  up  a  laugh. 


ii2  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"That's  right." 

There  seemed  a  kind  of  gloom  over  us  all  that  day  at 
luncheon;  only  Sophie  and  Aunt  Harriet  were  in  the 
usual  spirits.  Norman  was  very  silent,  and  ate  next  to 
nothing,  and  I  was  not  hilarious.  I  caught  Uncle  Guy 
once  or  twice  looking  at  us  curiously;  he,  too,  I  thought, 
seemed  ill  at  ease  and  fidgety.  He  got  up  before  lunch- 
eon was  over  and  went  to  his  room,  to  write  letters,  as 
he  said.  Later  on  I  saw  him  go  out  for  a  ride  with  Nor- 
man. Sophie  and  I  rode,  too,  but  we  saw  nothing  of 
the  other  two.  However,  we  had  a  good  gallop,  which 
did  us  a  world  of  good. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

ANOTHER   SHOOTING   PARTY,    A   SURPRISE   AND   A 
PUZZLE 

HTHE  week  before  Christmas  there  was  a  second  shoot- 
•*•  ing  party.  They  were  to  shoot  the  other  side  of 
the  park.  I  was  not  excited  at  the  thoughts  of  it, 
remembering  the  last  one.  I  only  wondered  mildly 
whether  the  United  Kingdom  could  produce  a  second 
batch  of  antediluvians  as  prehistoric  as  the  last.  I  sup- 
pose, as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  could  not,  for  the  present 
party  turned  out  to  be  babes  in  arms  by  comparison. 
They  were  also,  for  the  most  part,  delightfully  frivolous 
and  unpolitical!  The  bulk  of  the  visitors  only  arrived 
just  before  dinner,  and  went  straight  up  to  their  rooms 
to  dress.  For  my  own  part,  I  dressed  with  considerable 
care  that  night,  putting  on  my  very  best  dress — the  yel- 
low satin — and  finished  up  by  clasping  Norman's  brace- 
let on  my  left  arm.  I  flattered  myself  I  really  looked 
quite  presentable.  As  a  rule,  I  was  the  last  down,  being 
one  of  those  people  who  are  never  in  time  for  anything; 
but  to-night,  for  a  wonder,  I  was  early,  and  the  drawing- 
room  was  almost  empty  when  I  got  there.  There  was  a 
man  bending  down  over  the  papers  on  the  table;  I  sup- 
pose he  heard  the  rustle  of  my  dress — it  did  make  an 
appalling  noise! — for  he  straightened  himself  and  looked 
round.  It  was  Sydney! 

I  don't  suppose  I  have  ever  been  so  surprised  in  my 
"3 


Ii4  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

life.  Sydney  Grayle  an  invited  guest  to  Selworth,  of  all 
places!  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  de  Metrier, "  he  said,  with  the 
old  mocking  smile;  "you  don't  appear  overjoyed  to  see 
me." 

"Sydney!"  I  gasped,  "you  here!    Did  they  ask  you?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "of  course  not.  But  I  managed 
to  get  in,  after  a  bit  of  a  fight  with  the  butler  and  three 
footmen." 

"No;  but  isn't  it  an  extraordinary  thing?" 

"I  don't  see  anything  extraordinary  about  it.  Am  I 
too  great  a  yahoo  for  any  one  to  have  inside  their  house?" 

"Sydney,  they  know  all  about  it!" 

"Well,  let  them.     I  don't  care — do  you?" 

"No,  but  you  know  they  all  hate  the  idea  of  my  mar- 
rying you." 

"Do  they?     Who  particularly?" 

"Oh,  Uncle  Guy  and  Norman,  I  think.  But  I  don't 
know.  I  never  talk  about  it,  nor  do  they." 

"And  who  gave  you  that  pretty  bracelet,  little  Miss 
Dryad?" 

"Norman  gave  it  me  on  my  birthday." 

"Oh,  Norman  gave  it  you,  did  he? — true-lovers'  knot 
and  all?" 

"Oh,  that's  nothing!" 

Across  the  polished  floor  of  the  hall  we  could  hear 
the  sweep  of  many  skirts.  A  whole  army  of  people 
began  trooping  in,  with  the  slow,  uncertain  march  of  new 
arrivals  and  strangers.  We  pecked  and  bobbed  at  one 
another  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  smirked  amiably, 
and  made  inane  little  remarks;  and  then  Aunt  Harriet 
arrived,  and  we  were  all  introduced  and  told  one  anpther's 
names,  which  we  forgot  next  moment.  A  certain  Lord 


ANOTHER   SHOOTING   PARTY  115 

Grannet  took  me  in  to  dinner.  He  was  very  nice,  and 
quite  young,  and  had  a  very  pretty  wife,  who  was  simply 
blazing  with  jewels.  I  never  got  a  word  with  Sydney 
the  whole  night.  Father  Terence,  of  course,  sang  after 
dinner,  and  Sophie  played,  and  every  one  seemed 
pleased.  There  were  no  songsters  among  the  visitors. 

When  the  time  came  for  the  lighting  of  bedroom  can- 
dles, the  men,  as  usual,  gathered  round  in  force  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs.  When  I  said  good-night  to  Norman, 
to  my  very  intense  surprise,  he  stepped  forward  and 
kissed  me  before  them  all.  He  had  never  done  this, 
or  attempted  to,  since  the  first  night  of  my  arrival. 
I  held  out  my  hand  to  Sydney,  but  he  barely  touched 
it,  and  turned  away.  I  could  see  he  was  very  angry. 

Sophie  came  to  my  room,  and  sat  there  some  time, 
discussing  the  various  people,  and  then  she  went  to  bed, 
and  I  lay  awake  for  hours  puzzling  over  the  mystery  of 
Sydney  being  there.  The  more  I  thought  it  over,  the 
more  inexplicable  it  seemed — so  inexplicable,  in  fact, 
that  after  a  time  I  gave  up  bothering  about  it;  there  was 
no  possible  explanation  that  I  could  see.  However,  it 
was  very  nice  having  him  there,  I  thought,  only  I  wished 
Norman  hadn't  kissed  me.  It  was  very  tiresome  of  him — 
and  stupid,  too,  before  all  those  people.  And  then  I 
turned  over  and  went  to  sleep,  and  dreamt  that  Sydney 
and  I  were  wandering  about  looking  for  Inversnaid, 
which  we  couldn't  find.  As  we  were  looking  in  the  pas- 
sages of  Selworth,  this  was  perhaps  not  surprising. 

I  was  down  very  early  next  morning.  I  wanted,  if 
possible,  to  have  a  word  with  Sydney,  and  explain  about 
Norman  the  night  before.  But  the  lazy  fellow  never 
came  down  till  breakfast  was  half  over,  and  then,  of 
course,  we  wretched  females  were  dragged  off  to  the 


ii6  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

morning-room  to  do  polite  conversation,  and  he  went 
off  shooting  with  the  others;  so  the  chance  never  came. 
I  should  have  loved,  of  course,  to  have  gone  out  with 
the  shooters,  but  this  was  not  allowed. 

However,  my  early  rise  was  not  absolutely  barren  of 
results.  I  overheard  a  conversation,  or  part  of  a  con- 
versation, between  Norman  and  Father  Terence  that  set 
me  thinking  for  some  time.  It  happened  this  way. 
Selworth  is  a  house  that  has  probably  more  staircases 
than  any  other  house  in  Europe.  I  suppose  it  comes  from 
having  been  built  at  so  many  different  periods.  Not  one 
of  them  run  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  house ;  they  all 
stop  short  half-way,  and  then  begin  again  somewhere 
else!  Some  of  them  are  not  more  than  a  dozen  steps 
high — ridiculous  little  things  springing  out  of  places  like 
cupboards,  where  no  one  would  ever  dream  of  looking 
for  a  staircase.  Others  are  double  or  treble  this  height, 
according  to  what  is  required  of  them ;  for  the  floors  are 
just  as  irregular  in  their  way  as  the  staircases,  and 
equally  unconventional — rising  and  falling  and  twisting 
about  from  right  to  left  for  no  possible  reason  that  one 
can  see  except  to  puzzle  people,  and  give  them  exercise. 
It  took  me  more  than  a  month  to  find  my  way  about. 
After  that  I  used  to  amuse  myself  by  trying  to  get  from 
my  room  to  the  drawing-room  by  as  many  different  ways 
as  possible.  Sophie  had  a  different  form  of  amusement. 
Whenever  Aunt  Harriet  asked  her  to  take  a  visitor  to 
her  room,  instead  of  going  the  plain,  straightforward 
way,  she  used  to  drag  the  wretched  woman  upstairs  and 
downstairs,  round  corners,  and  down  twisting  dark  pas- 
sages, then  up  another  stair,  and  down  another,  with 
more  passages  and  more  corners,  till  finally,  after  walk- 
ing half  a  mile,  she  landed  her,  breathless  and  bewil- 


ANOTHER   SHOOTING   PARTY  117 

dered,  at  the  door  of  her  room.  There  she  would  leave 
her,  hoping,  with  a  sweet  smile,  that  she  would  find  her 
way  down  again  all  right. 

Well,  this  particular  morning  it  happened  that  I 
went  down  from  the  first  floor  to  the  long  passage  below, 
by  a  little  dark  staircase  known  to  Sophie  and  me  as  the 
"red  stairs."  This  staircase  really  connects  the  rob- 
bers' passage  above  with  the  little  corridor  that  leads  to 
the  chapel.  The  robbers'  passage,  by  the  way,  was  in 
reality  the  place  where  the  men-servants  slept;  but  it 
was  not  on  this  account  that  we  gave  it  the  name,  but 
because,  as  children,  we  were  firmly  convinced  that  it 
was  the  chosen  home  of  several  bands  of  robbers.  No 
power  on  earth  would  have  taken  us  down  it  after  dark. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  red  stairs  there  is  a  sort  of  lobby, 
apparently  devised  by  the  architect  for  the  purpose  of 
wasting  space.  As  I  went  down,  I  heard  voices  below, 
and  looking  over  the  banisters,  saw  Norman  and  Father 
Terence  in  earnest  conversation.  I  thought  nothing  of 
this  at  the  time,  and  stood  there  for  a  minute  watching 
them,  and  wishing  I  had  something  to  drop  on  their 
heads. 

"Me  dear  boy,"  the  priest  was  saying,  "it  often  hap- 
pens in  this  world  that  we  have  to  do  certain  things 
which  are  repugnant  to  our  natures,  especially  to  the 
emotional  side  of  our  natures.  But  when  such  actions 
are  the  only  means  of  averting  a  very  grave  calamity, 
they  become  not  only  justifiable,  but  a  positive  duty. 
There  can  be  no  question  of  that." 

"You  think  so?"  Norman  said,  doubtfully. 

"Me  dear  boy,  I'm  sure  of  it.     Don't  have  any  fear." 

At  this  moment  I  suddenly  appeared  on  the  bottom 
flight  of  steps. 


ii8  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Ah!  Miss  Joe,"  he  said,  "now  don't  you  agree  with 
me?  I  have  been  telling  Norman  that  in  all  questions 
of  obvious  duty  personal  feeling  should  be  put  on  one 
side.  What  do  you  say,  now?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  I  said;  "I  think 
duty's  always  a  bore." 

Father  Terence  went  off  towards  the  chapel,  and 
Norman  and  I  strolled  along  towards  the  morning-room 
to  wait  for  breakfast. 

"What  is  this  very  disagreeable  duty  you  have  to  per- 
form?" I  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing  in  particular,"  he  said;  "he  was  gener- 
alising, you  know — preaching  a  sermon,  in  fact;  he's 
rather  fond  of  it." 

I  felt  pretty  certain  this  was  not  true.  People  don't 
talk  in  the  earnest,  decisive  tones  that  Father  Terence 
was  using  if  they  are  only  generalising,  nor  do  they  look 
so  particularly  disconcerted  at  being  overheard.  There 
was  something  behind;  I  felt  sure  of  that. 

Norman  was  absent  and  dejected,  and  I  didn't  press 
him.  He  had  been  in  terribly  low  spirits  ever  since  my 
refusal  of  him  the  week  before — quite  a  different  man, 
in  fact — haggard,  silent,  and  cross.  I  had  no  idea  he 
could  have  taken  anything  so  to  heart — especially  the 
mere  loss  of  so  valueless  an  article  as  myself.  Whether 
he  had  told  the  others  I  had  no  idea — I  thought  not. 
Why  should  he?  Of  course,  /  had  said  nothing  about  it, 
even  to  Sophie ;  I  was  much  too  sorry  for  Norman,  and 
besides,  it  seemed  so  conceited. 

So  I  and  my  love  affairs  were  left  alone  by  the  rest  of 
the  family.  Everybody  was  the  same  to  me  as  before — 
cheerful  and  kind  and  thoughtful.  Father  Terence  went 
on  telling  his  anecdotes,  and  laughing  at  them  louder 


ANOTHER   SHOOTING   PARTY  119 

than  any  one  else,  and  Uncle  Guy  went  on  swearing  his 
mild,  amiable  oaths,  and  patting  me  on  the  head,  and 
paying  me  his  funny,  old-fashioned  compliments,  just 
exactly  the  same  as  before.  Still,  for  all  this,  there  was 
a  change.  It  was  nothing  that  one  can  describe,  or  put 
into  words;  it  was  far  too  slight  and  indefinite  for  that; 
but  there  it  was — quite  unmistakable — and  it  made  me 
very  unhappy.  It  had  started  from  the  day  that  Uncle 
Guy  had  found  me  with  Sydney,  and  it  had  not  become 
less  after  Norman  had  asked  me  to  marry  him.  Sophie, 
of  course,  was  just  the  same  as  ever;  there  was  no 
change  in  her,  or  in  Aunt  Harriet,  either,  for  that  mat- 
ter; but,  then,  I  don't  think  Aunt  Harriet  ever  really 
liked  me,  so  that,  even  if  she  was  angry  with  me,  it  was 
not  likely  to  make  any  great  difference  in  her  manner. 

I  put  it  all  down  to  their  pride.  The  De  Metriers 
were  immensely  proud,  and  always  had  been — proud  of 
their  long  descent,  of  their  name,  of  their  place,  and — a 
little,  I  think — of  their  wealth.  I  had  no  pride.  Ten 
years  of  Chelmsford,  and  white  cotton  stockings,  and  tea 
and  shrimps,  had  made  away  with  any  original  pride  I 
might  have  inherited;  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  had  any. 
I  was  not  the  least  distinguee — as  Aunt  Harriet  was  so 
fond  of  impressing  upon  me — either  in  appearance  or 
manners. 

Still,  I  did  bear  the  family  name,  and  I  thought  they 
were  annoyed  at  the  idea  of  a  De  Metrier  wishing  to 
marry  a  penniless  land-agent,  even  though  he  was  a 
peer's  son;  and  still  more  annoyed  at  the  idea  of  a 
homeless  charity-girl  presuming  to  refuse  the  heir  and 
hope  of  the  family. 

During  this,  to  me,  intensely  memorable  shooting 
party,  there  occurred  one  little  incident  which,  in  view 


120 

of  after  events,  I  must  mention.  I  was  coming  down- 
stairs from  my  room  just  before  dressing-time  when  I 
met  Norman's  valet  coming  up  the  turret  stairs  carry- 
ing clothes  and  hot  water.  He  was  a  man  named  Fre- 
netzi,  a  flashy-looking  Italian,  that  I  rather  disliked,  but 
that  Norman  swore  by.  I  stopped  and  stared  at  him. 

"Why,  where  are  you  going?"  I  said,  "you  can't  get 
to  Mr.  Norman's  room  that  way." 

"These  are  Meestare  Grayle's  clothes,"  he  said, 
with  a  bow  and  a  flourish.  "Meestare  Grayle  he  bring 
no  valet-de-chambre,  and  Meestare  Norman  say  I  wait  on 
him;  he  has  what  they  call  the  Blue  Room." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  I  said,  and  passed  on.  I  thought  noth- 
ing of  this  at  the  time,  but  a  great  deal  a  little  later  on. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

A   NIGHTMARE 

TT  was  the  22nd  of  December — a  day  that  I  shudder  at 
•*•  even  now.  The  shooting  finished  that  day,  and  the 
guests  were  all  going  off  next  morning.  The  party  had 
been  an  immense  success  from  every  point  of  view — 
social,  sporting,  climatic.  Every  one  seemed  to  enjoy 
themselves,  even  poor,  dejected  Norman.  There  was  a 
certain  Miss  Fortescue  among  the  guests,  an  heiress, 
and  a  bit  of  a  beauty,  to  whom  he  made  desperate  love; 
and  she,  for  her  part,  I  must  confess,  seemed  more  than 
content  that  he  should — in  fact,  all  the  women  flocked 
round  Norman,  morning  and  evening,  making  a  regular 
hero  of  him.  They  stood  behind  him  out  shooting;  they 
talked  across  the  table  to  him  at  dinner,  and  left  their 
proper  partners  sulky  and  neglected;  they  sat  in  a  circle 
round  him  after  dinner,  or  disappeared  with  him  to  the 
billiard-room;  there  was  no  end  to  it.  And  from  time 
to  time  I  would  catch  him  shooting  a  quick  glance  at 
me,  to  see  if  I  was  taking  it  all  in,  and  noticing  what  a 
fine  fellow  all  these  smart  ladies  thought  him.  Of  course, 
I  noticed  it,  but  it  made  no  difference  to  me;  he  was 
welcome  to  them  all,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned. 

For  Sydney  and  I  had  made  it  up — made  it  up,  I 
mean,  about  Norman  and  his  bracelet,  and  that  first 
good-night.  The  bracelet  I  had  put  away  out  of  sight, 
with  many  a  sore  pang  of  regret,  it  must  be  owned;  and 

121 


122  THE   PERILS   OF    JOSEPHINE 

as  to  the  other  thing,  I  had  explained  to  him  that  it  was 
not  my  fault,  that  Norman  had  taken  me  by  surprise, 
and  that  what  had  happened  was  by  no  means  a  prac- 
tice— very  much  the  opposite,  in  fact.  I  told  him  that 
he  was  a  real  old  stupid  not  to  see  that  the  whole  thing 
was  an  open  and  transparent  attempt  on  Norman's  part 
to  stir  up  bad  blood  between  us.  And  Sydney,  being 
just  as  anxious,  I  think,  as  I  was  to  see  things  in  a  rea- 
sonable and  satisfactory  light,  admitted  that  this  was 
more  than  probable. 

So  that  little  cloud  passed  away  in  sunshine;  and  the 
sunshine  shone  out  brightly  and  merrily — though  at  very 
long  intervals,  alas! — till  the  end  of  thelastday'sshooting. 

After  that  there  was  no  more  sun  for  many  a  day. 

The  shooting  was  finished,  and  they  were  all  going  off 
next  morning  after  breakfast.  The  great  ceremony  of 
candle-lighting  and  separating  for  the  night  was  over, 
and  Sophie  and  I  were  sitting  in  my  room  discussing 
people  in  general,  and  Sydney  in  particular.  Sophie 
went  so  far  as  to  allow  that  she  was  quite  in  love  with 
Sydney  herself,  but  qualified  this  admission  by  saying 
that  girls  that  let  their  feelings  get  away  with  them,  so 
far  as  to  wish  to  marry  penniless  younger  sons,  ought  to 
be  shut  up  as  a  danger  to  the  state. 

"Pooh!"  said  I,  "don't  be  priggish!  Really,  Sophie, 
you  are  getting  to  talk  exactly  like  old  General  Bor- 
rodaile. " 

"I  don't  care;  you  ought  to  be  shut  up!  He's  very 
nice,  but  you  ought  to  be  shut  up;  you  both  ought  to  be 
shut  up — silly  young  nooks!" 

"Well,"  I  said,  laughing,  "it's  high  time  we  were 
both  shut  up  for  this  night,  anyhow.  Do  you  know  it's 
past  twelve  o'clock?" 


A    NIGHTMARE  123 

"Goodness!"  she  said,  "I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late. 
I  hope  I  shan't  meet  any  of  the  men.  Good-night." 

I  watched  her  scuttling  down  the  stairs,  candle  in 
hand,  till  she  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  locked  the 
door,  tore  off  my  dressing-gown,  and  hopped  into  bed. 
I  was  just  comfortably  tired,  and  at  peace  with  all  men, 
and  all  women,  too,  and  I  expect  I  was  asleep  before 
Sophie  got  to  her  room. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  I  woke  quite  suddenly,  and 
without  warning,  and  lay  still,  listening.  I  had  not  the 
faintest  idea  of  what  had  wakened  me,  but  in  a  second  I 
was  awake,  and  fearfully  conscious  of  some  vague  terror  in 
the  atmosphere.  My  heart  thumped  madly  against  my 
ribs,  and  my  mouth  felt  dry  and  parched.  What  was  it? 
Not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night.  The  fire 
was  out,  and  the  darkness  was  intense.  With  every 
nerve  at  full  stretch,  I  lay  still,  waiting  for  the  sound 
of  that  which  I  felt  was  near.  After  what  seemed  an  age 
it  came,  a  faint,  insignificant  noise,  but  one  that  literally 
stopped  my  heart  with  a  jerk,  for  it  told  me  as  plain  as 
words  that  there  was  some  one  in  the  room.  I  would 
have  screamed,  only  that  I  was  too  frightened.  My  feel- 
ing was  that  if  I  made  the  slightest  sound,  the  unknown 
presence  would  hurl  itself  at  my  throat.  I  remember 
now  wondering  vaguely — even  in  the  middle  of  the 
cold  agony  I  was  in — how  any  one  or  any  thing  could 
have  got  into  the  room.  I  always  locked  my  door,  and 
the  windows  were  little  diamond-paned  slits  that  nobody 
could  have  squeezed  through.  Then  there  came  another 
noise — a  sort  of  stealthy  creak  and  the  sound  of  breath- 
ing; I  could  hear  the  breathing  now  quite  plainly.  Why 
my  hair  was  not  snow-white  next  morning  is  a  marvel  to 
me!  I  put  my  head  under  the  clothes,  and  lay  there  in 


I24  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

a  shaking  ague  beside  which  death  must  be  a  mere  joke. 
Like  a  flash,  all  the  murders  I  had  ever  read  of  Shot 
through  my  mind,  vivid,  horrible,  appalling!  I  longed 
for  death — for  anything  to  put  an  end  to  it.  I  brought 
my  head  out  very  slowly  from  under  the  clothes.  There 
was  that  ghastly  breathing  as  plain  as  ever — sounding 
closer  if  anything  than  before.  A  strange  kind  of  reck- 
less courage  came  over  me — the  sort  of  courage  that  peo- 
ple must  have  who  commit  suicide.  I  put  out  my  hand 
very,  very  softly,  and  felt  for  my  matches.  They  stood 
by  the  side  of  my  candle,  and  my  hand  found  them  after 
a  short  moment's  groping.  Very  carefully  I  brought  out 
my  left  hand,  too,  and  felt  for  the  place  to  strike  on. 
My  great  terror  now  was  that  the  match  might  not  light 
at  the  first  strike.  If  it  was  damp,  after  the  manner  of 
matches,  and  simply  gave  out  a  tell-tale  scratch  while 
refusing  to  light,  I  felt  that  my  brain  would  crack,  and 
I  should  go  stark,  staring  mad  that  very  moment. 
Holding  my  breath,  I  dragged  the  match  madly  across 
the  rough,  and  it  lit — blazed  up  at  the  very  first  attempt. 
I  think  that  was  the  most  terrible  moment  of  all.  God 
knows  what  I  expected  to  see!  I  held  the  match  up 
high,  and  glared  across  the  foot  of  the  bed  with  my  teeth 
chattering  like  castanets.  The  next  moment  I  sank 
back  on  the  pillows  with  a  sigh  of  such  relief  that  I  think 
I  nearly  fainted.  I  had  just  strength  and  presence  of 
mind  enough  to  light  the  candle,  and  no  more. 

Norman  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace. 
He  had  on  a  gorgeous  red  and  gold  dressing-gown,  and 
his  hands  were  in  his  pockets. 

The  relief  I  felt  at  first  was  so  immense — so  inde- 
scribably immense — that  I  quite  forgot  to  wonder  what 
he  was  doing  there — or  how  he  got  in.  I  felt  like  a  per- 


A    NIGHTMARE  125 

son  who  has  just  been  snatched  from  the  jaws  of  some 
awful  death.  I  felt  almost  as  if  Norman  was  the  person 
who  had  rescued  me.  For  a  minute  or  two  I  lay  back 
with  closed  eyes  and  gasped. 

Then  I  began  slowly  to  recover  my  senses.  It  was 
Norman  who  helped  me  principally  to  do  this.  He 
began  walking  towards  me,  and  I  opened  my  eyes,  and 
looked  at  him.  He  looked  very  odd.  His  face  was  red 
and  flushed,  his  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  he  wore  a 
foolish  sort  of  smile.  He  looked  to  me  like  a  man  who 
had  been  drinking. 

"Norman,"  I  said,  "what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Oh,  I  just  came  to  have  a  little  talk,"  he  said  with 
a  foolish  leer. 

"Talk!"  I  cried.  "What  do  you  mean?  What  do 
you  want  to  talk  about?  Do  you  know  what  time  it  is? 
Go  away!  How  did  you  get  in?" 

"Oh,  love  can  always  find  a  way,"  he  said,  grin- 
ning. 

"Go  away  this  very  minute,"  I  said;  "I  believe 
you're  drunk." 

"No,  Joe,  only  desperately  in  love,"  he  said. 

I  sat  up  in  bed  and  faced  him.  I  was  not  in  the  least 
afraid  now.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  terror  before  I 
might  have  been,  but  after  that  it  seemed  nothing. 

"What — do — you — want?"  I  said,  very  slowly  and 
distinctly. 

He  gave  a  silly  little  laugh.  His  manner  was  half- 
sheepish  and  half-defiant,  and  quite  unlike  himself. 

"What  do  I  want?"  he  said.  "Well,  Joe,  in  the  first 
place,  I  want  a  kiss." 

He  began  coming  my  way,  and  in  one  second  I  was 
out  of  bed.  On  the  right  of  my  bed  was  a  washing- 


iz6  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

stand,  and  between  that  and  the  bed  was  the  bell. 
I  seized  the  rope  with  my  .right  hand,  and  faced  him. 

"Norman,"  I  said,  "this  bell  rings  in  Griffiths'  room. 
If  you  come  one  step  nearer,  I'll  ring." 

"Oh,  no,  little  Joe,"  he  said;  "you  wouldn't  do  that, 
I  know." 

He  came  shuffling  on  in  his  slippers,  and  I  pulled 
the  bell  three  times,  with  all  my  strength.  At  the  third 
pull  the  rope  came  down  with  a  clatter.  I  was  really 
frightened  now,  terrified;  but  to  my  amazement,  Nor- 
man spun  on  his  heel,  and  went  into  peals  of  laughter. 
He  took  a  match-box  off  the  table  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
and  lighting  a  cigarette,  threw  himself  into  the  armchair 
by  the  fireplace.  I  stood  perfectly  still  and  watched  him. 

"Are  you  quite  mad?"  I  said. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "method,  you  know — a  certain 
amount  of  method." 

"Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  GO,"  I  said;  "Grif- 
fiths will  be  here  in  a  minute." 

"Oh,  bother  old  Griffiths!     Who  cares  for  her?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  not  going?" 

"No,  Joe,  dear;  it's  so  beastly  lonely  in  my  room, 
and  this  chair  is  awfully  comfortable." 

"And  you  call  yourself  a  gentleman?"  I  said. 

"Sometimes  I  do.     Not  just  now." 

He  looked  at  me  again  over  his  shoulder,  and  laughed 
loud  and  inanely. 

"Well,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  make  such  a  noise," 
I  cried. 

"All  right,  Joe,"  he  said,  and  lit  another  cigarette. 

For  five  minutes  by  the  clock  we  stayed  so,  in  dead 
silence — I  standing  shivering  by  the  broken  bell-rope, 
Norman  lazily  smoking  in  the  armchair.  I  was  try- 


A   NIGHTMARE  127 

ing  all  the  time  to  think  of  the  best  thing  to  do, 
and  couldn't.  My  brain  refused  to  work — everything 
was  in  a  kind  of  haze.  All  I  knew  was  that  the  situa- 
tion was  becoming  intolerable.  In  the  distance,  through 
the  silence  of  the  night,  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  door 
shutting.  I  turned  to  Norman  and  ground  my  teeth. 

"  Will  you  go?"  I  cried,  stamping  my  bare  foot. 

"Not  just  yet,"  he  said,  carelessly;  "all  in  good  time, 
you  know." 

"But  she's  coming!" 

"What?  Old  Griffiths?  Oh,  never  mind  the  old  girl; 
let  her  come." 

I  could  hear  her  footsteps  on  the  stairs  now.  All 
sounds  seemed  plain  to  me  that  night;  every  sense  was 
at  high  pressure  Higher  and  higher  they  came  on  the 
stone,  uncarpeted  steps — the  dragging  steps  of  a  tired 
elderly  woman.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door;  I  never 
moved;  to  tell  the  truth,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do. 
I  heard  her  try  the  handle,  but  the  door  was  locked; 
then,  quite  distinctly,  I  heard  her  sniffing  outside, 
exactly  like  a  dog  who  thinks  he  has  found  a  suspicious 
smell.  I  was  not  surprised;  the  room  was  full  of  smoke. 

She  tried  the  handle  again,  shaking  the  door  this 
time. 

"Miss  Josephine." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  trying  to  put  on  a  sleepy  voice. 

"Did  you  ring?  Your  bell  rang  in  my  room  as 
though  the  house  was  on  fire." 

"Yes,  Griffiths,  I  did  ring.  I  thought  I  heard  bur- 
glars, and  was  frightened;  but  I  think  it  was  nothing. 
I  am  so  sorry  for  disturbing  you.  Good-night." 

"You  had  better  let  me  come  in,  miss,  and  look 
about;  there  might  be  something." 


128  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

There  was  half  a  minute's  silence  while  I  racked  my 
brains  for  the  best  thing  to  do.  Then,  to  my  unspeak- 
able horror,  Norman's  voice  came  across  the  room  to 
me  in  an  extremely  clear  stage-whisper: 

"Get  rid  of  the  old  girl  somehow,  Joe,  for  goodness' 
sake!  We  don't  want  her  in  here." 

I  heard  a  regular  gasp  from  outside  the  door — the 
catch  of  the  breath  a  person  might  give  if  they  saw  a  ghost. 

"It  was  really  nothing,  thank  you,  Griffiths,"  I  said; 
"please  go  to  bed.  I  am  very  sorry  about  it." 

"Oh,  certainly,  miss,"  she  said,  in  a  tight,  acrid  voice. 

We  heard  her  clicking  down  the  stairs,  and  Norman 
burst  into  a  loud  peal  of  laughter. 

"Well  done,  Joe!"  he  cried  out;  "you  managed  that 
splendidly!" 

"You  devil!"  I  said.     "Hold  your  tongue." 

He  laughed  again,  quietly  this  time. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said,  "how  splendid  you  look  when 
you  are  angry;  and  what  splendid  hair  you've  got!  You 
ought  always  to  have  it  down  like  that!" 

"Get  out  of  my  room!"  I  said. 

"Yes,  I'll  go  now,  Joe,  but  I  must  have  that  kiss  first. 
You've  no  bell  to  ring  now,  you  know." 

He  got  up  quite  slowly  from  the  chair,  and  began 
coming  my  way.  I  think  all  fear  had  vanished  now  be- 
fore the  overpowering  rage  that  boiled  within  me.  I 
took  a  step  towards  the  washing-stand,  and  seized  the 
water-bottle  by  the  neck. 

"I  swear  I'll  break  this  over  your  head  if  you  do,"  I 
said. 

"All  right,  Joe,  don't  get  so  excited.  No  one's  going 
to  eat  you." 

I  stood  eyeing  him,  and  balancing  the  bottle  in  my 


A    NIGHTMARE  129 

right  hand;  I  even  emptied  half  the  water  into  the  jug 
to  prevent  wetting  myself.  I  felt  I  should  have  loved 
to  have  had  one  clear  sweep  at  his  head.  He  evidently 
didn't  like  the  look  of  the  bottle. 

"I'm  going,"  he  said,  shortly.  "I  think  you  are 
very  disagreeable;  give  me  a  light." 

He  held  out  a  bedroom  candle,  one  of  those  with  a 
long  glass  on  them.  I  had  not  noticed  it  before. 

"No,"  I  said.     "You've  got  matches." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  began  to  whistle 
softly;  but  he  lit  the  candle  with  a  match,  and  placed 
it  on  the  far  edge  of  the  chimney-piece.  I  watched  him 
with  intense  curiosity.  He  pulled  a  chair  opposite  the 
fireplace  and  climbed  from  this  on  to  the  chimney- 
piece.  Then  he  ran  his  hand  quickly  up  the  inside  of  the 
picture  frame  above,  paused  for  a  second  at  a  particular 
spot,  and  fumbled  about  with  his  fingers.  The  next 
moment  great  grandfather  Maurice  swung  noiselessly  out 
of  the  wall,  leaving  a  black,  cave-like  space  where  he  had 
been.  Norman  took  his  candle  and  stepped  in.  By  the 
light  I  got  a  glimpse  of  stone  steps.  Then  Norman 
turned  round  to  me,  nodded  and  kissed  his  hand,  and 
slowly  pulled  the  picture  after  him. 

"Good-night,  little  cousin,"  he  said.  "Sorry  I  had  to 
bother  you — beastly  sorry,  'pon  my  word! — but  needs 
must,  you  know,  when  the  devil  drives.  See  you  at 
breakfast." 

The  picture  closed  with  a  snap,  and  he  was  gone.  By 
the  faint  light  of  my  one  candle  I  could  see  Maurice 
looking  down  at  me  with  his  old,  supercilious  smile,  and 
to  my  excited  fancy,  the  smile  seemed  more  of  a  sneer 
than  ever.  I  shook  my  fist  at  him  frantically  for  a 
minute,  and  then  I  fell  on  my  knees  and  burst  into  tears, 
with  my  head  buried  in  the  pillows. 


CHAPTER   XV 

A  LECTURE   FROM  AUNT  HARRIET 

T  BELIEVE  I  did  sleep  for  about  two  hours  towards 
•••  morning.  When  I  got  up,  and  looked  at  my  face 
in  the  glass,  I  almost  laughed,  it  was  so  ghastly.  All 
my  colour  was  gone,  and  my  face  looked  quite  drawn. 
However,  there  was  no  use  making  a  fuss  over  things,  so 
I  dressed  quietly  and  went  down  in  good  time  for  break- 
fast. I  wanted  to  see  Sydney  before  he  went.  Norman 
was  not  down;  he  often  had  breakfast  in  bed,  like  a 
woman.  I  was  thankful  for  that  much. 

It  appeared  to  me,  before  I  had  been  down  long,  that 
I  must  look  worse  even  than  I  had  thought,  people  stared 
at  me  so.  Several  times  I  caught  both  Uncle  Guy  and 
Father  Terence  looking  at  me  slyly,  out  of  the  "tail  of 
their  eye."  Aunt  Harriet  stared  at  me  openly,  with  a 
cold,  unsympathetic  stare;  but  the  worst  of  all  was 
Sydney.  When  I  first  came  into  the  room,  he  looked  at 
me  as  if  I  had  been  a  ghost — looked  at  me  with  the  eyes 
with  which  I  should  fancy  people  watch  a  bull-fight.  I 
smiled  across  at  him,  but  he  looked  away,  pretending 
not  to  see.  He,  too,  looked  old  and  haggard,  I 
thought. 

The  guests  chattered  away  gaily,  but  over  the  house- 
party  there  seemed  to  hang  a  settled  gloom.  Even 
Father  Terence,  the  irrepressible,  looked  anxious  and 
uneasy;  I  saw  him  watching  the  door  as  each  fresh  per- 

130 


A   LECTURE    FROM   AUNT   HARRIET     131 

son  came  into  the  room,  as  though  expecting  some  one. 
I  never  was  more  glad  when  a  meal  was  over. 

Sydney's  dog-cart  came  to  the  door  about  ten,  and  I 
stood  about  outside  under  the  portico,  patting  the  horse, 
and  waiting  to  say  good-bye.  It  was  a  dull,  grey  morn- 
ing, and  there  was  a  slight  drizzle  falling.  The  deer, 
browsing  on  the  Plain,  looked  blurred  and  misty.  He 
came  out  at  last,  very  quickly,  in  a  long  overcoat,  and 
began  climbing  in,  without  looking  to  the  right  or  left. 
Frenetzi  followed  close  at  his  heels,  carrying  a  dressing- 
bag,  which  he  handed  in  after  him.  I  ran  forward,  and 
with  my  hand  on  the  horse's  quarters,  looked  up  at  him 
and  smiled.  I  wished  Frenetzi  was  not  there;  the  groom 
on  the  back  seat  didn't  matter — he  was  looking  the 
other  way.  But  as  it  turned  out,  neither  the  groom  nor 
Frenetzi,  nor  any  one  else,  would  have  been  the  least 
in  the  way.  Sydney  just  stared  down  at  me  with  a  hard 
glassy  stare,  and  raised  his  hat. 

"I  think  we  are  going  to  have  rain,"  he  remarked. 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,"  I  said,  "at  least  not  before  you 
get  home.  But,  anyhow,  you  have  not  far  to  go." 

"No,  only  four  miles  or  so.      Good-morning!" 

He  tightened  the  reins,  and  drove  off.  I  jumped  back 
quickly  to  avoid  the  wheel,  and  stood  watching  him  till 
he  swept  out  of  sight  round  the  corner.  He  never  once 
looked  back.  A  load  like  lead  settled  round  my  heart, 
and  I  felt  that  the  end  of  life  had  come  to  me.  It  was 
not  so  much  what  he  had  said — or  rather  left  unsaid — it 
was  his  manner,  and  the  look  in  his  eyes.  Slowly  and 
miserably  I  turned  to  go  into  the  house.  Frenetzi  still 
stood  at  the  door,  and,  as  I  passed,  he  bowed  low,  with 
hands  outspread,  and  smiled  at  me  sardonically — at  least 
so  it  seemed  to  me. 


132  THE   PERILS    OF    JOSEPHINE 

I  passed  down  the  little  passage  that  runs  by  the  side 
of  the  great  hall,  and  gaining  the  long  corridor,  made 
my  way  by  unfrequented  routes  to  the  schoolroom.  I 
heard  them  all  gabbling  like  geese  as  I  passed  the  morn- 
ing-room, and  I  felt  I  hated  the  whole  pack  of  them. 
What  right  had  they  to  froth  and  bubble  when  I  was  so 
abjectly  miserable? 

There  was  a  big  fire  blazing  in  the  schoolroom,  and 
I  felt  glad  of  it,  for  misery  is  the  chilliest  thing  on  earth. 
I  threw  myself  into  a  big  chair  and  sobbed  unrestrainedly 
for  ten  minutes.  No  one  has  ever  felt  quite  so  utterly 
wretched  as  I  did  then.  I  felt  that  every  soul  at  Sel- 
worth  was  my  enemy — excepting,  of  course,  Sophie;  not 
dear,  gentle  Sophie — but  every  one  else — even  the  ser- 
vants. 

There  was  a  conspiracy  against  me,  I  felt — a  vile, 
mean,  cowardly  conspiracy!  It  was  a  shame — a  cruel 
shame ! 

What  had  I  done  to  deserve  it?  Why  should  they  all 
set  on  a  miserable,  defenceless  girl!  I  could  have  borne 
it  all  except  for  Sydney.  If  he  had  remained  friendly 
and  loving  and  loyal,  I  would  cheerfully  have  snapped 
my  fingers  at  the  rest ;  but  there  it  was — some  brutes  had 
been  poisoning  his  mind  with  villainous  lies,  and  he 
wouldn't  look  at  me — never  would  look  at  me  again, 
never,  never,  never! 

I  buried  my  face  in  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  shook 
the  room  with  my  sobs.  I  was  not  by  any  means  a 
"crying  girl,"  but  all  my  nerves  were  unstrung,  and  it 
did  me  good. 

Sophie  came  in  after  a  little,  and  kissed  me,  and 
stroked  my  hair,  and  asked  me  what  it  was  all  about, 
and  was  altogether  very  nice  and  sweet  and  kind.  But, 


133 

of  course,  I  couldn't  tell  her — how  could  I?  I  said 
Sydney  and  I  had  had  a  quarrel,  and  she  was  very  sym- 
pathetic, and  said  it  would  come  all  right  in  the  end,  and 
I  must  not  fret,  and  that  Sydney  had  told  her  in  confi- 
dence one  night  at  dinner  that  he  was  so  madly  in  love 
with  me  he  could  hardly  sleep  at  night.  I  laughed  hys- 
terically at  this,  and  said  he  would  sleep  soundly  enough 
now. 

Poor  Sophie!  I  am  afraid  I  was  cross  to  her.  I 
always  was  cross  when  things  upset  me.  But  she  didn't 
mind;  she  had  an  angelic  temper — not  the  least  like 
mine — and  the  crosser  I  was,  the  more  she  tried  to  com- 
fort me. 

Then,  about  twelve,  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  Mercer,  the  groom  of  the  chambers,  carne  in. 

"Her  ladyship,"  he  said,  "would  like  to  see  Miss 
Josephine  in  her  sitting-room." 

"That's  Griffiths,"  I  thought;  "the  old  cat!  I  should 
like  to  shake  her." 

I  ran  to  my  room,  and  with  the  help  of  a  sponge  and 
brush,  made  myself  look  as  respectable  as  I  could,  and 
then  marched  defiantly  downstairs,  past  the  long  gallery, 
to  Aunt  Harriet's  sitting-room.  After  all,  what  had  I 
got  to  be  ashamed  of? 

I  knocked  boldly. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  stiff,  prim  voice  I  knew  so  well. 

Aunt  Harriet  was  sitting  at  her  writing-table,  facing 
the  window.  Why  do  people  always  sit  at  a  writing-table 
when  they  mean  to  lecture  one? 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Josephine,  is  it?"  she  said,  looking  up. 
"Sit  down  for  a  minute;  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

She  went  on  writing  for  some  time,  while  I  drummed 
with  my  fingers  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  stared  dis- 


134  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

mally  into  the  fire.     Then,   very  deliberately,  she  half 
turned  her  chair  round  and  faced  me. 

"Josephine,  this  is  a  very  extraordinary  story  I  hear 
from  Griffiths." 

I  found  no  need  to  make  any  comment. 

"She  assures  me  that  Norman  was  in  your  room,  with 
the  door  locked,  between  three  and  four  in  the  morning. " 

"Yes,"  I  said,  calmly;  "it's  perfectly  true." 

She  looked  at  me  hard  over  her  spectacles,  and 
coughed  nervously. 

"You  take  it  very  quietly,"  she  said;  "but  do  you 
realise  what  it  means?" 

"I  realise  nothing,"  I  answered,  sullenly.  "It  was 
not  my  fault.  I  couldn't  help  it. " 

"Hush,  Josephine;  no  one  has  yet  said  it  was;  qui 
s1  excuse  s 'accuse,  remember ;  but  this  is  not  exactly  the 
point.  The  point  is — What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"What  am  I  going  to  do?"  I  cried.  "What  is  there  to 
be  done?" 

She  coughed  again.  She  seemed  far  more  nervous 
than  I  was,  I  thought. 

"My  dear  child,  there  is  no  need  to  take  up  that  defi- 
ant tone.  I  am  not  blaming  you,  understand ;  I  merely 
desire  to  discuss  with  you  what  had  best  be  done  in  your 
own  interest,  having  due  regard  to  les  convenances." 

"Nothing  can  undo  it,"  I  said. 

"No,  nothing  can  undo  it — true;  but  the  sting  may 
be  taken  out  of  the  esclandre.  I  am  afraid  the  story  is 
not  only  all  over  the  house  by  now,  but  has  been  carried 
away  by  the  majority  of  the  visitors." 

"That's  dear  old  Griffiths!"  I  said. 

"Griffiths  is  an  excellent  woman,  and  a  first-rate 
maid,  but  her  tongue  unfortunately  is  apt  to  run  away 


A   LECTURE    FROM   AUNT    HARRIET     135 

with  her.  It  is  her  only  fault;  she  is  a  little  inclined  to 
be  babillarde. ' ' 

"Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  she  has  told  every 
one  in  the  house?" 

"Well,  in  this  case  it's  possible  she  may  have  been  a 
little  indiscreet;  but  I  imagine  the  person  that  really 
did  the  mischief  was  not  Griffiths,  but  that  dreadful  ser- 
vant of  Norman's." 

"Frenetzi?" 

"Yes,  Frenetzi.  I  understand  he  is  a  confirmed 
mauvaise  langue,  and  makes  a  practice  of  retailing  all  the 
scandal  and  gossip  he  can  pick  up  downstairs  to  Norman, 
and — any  one  else  he  happens  to  be  waiting  on. ' ' 

There  was  a  silence;  both  of  us  stared  hard  into  the 
fire.  I  could  see  Aunt  Harriet's  fingers  twitching  as 
though  she  had  an  ague. 

"Well,"  I  said,  desperately,  "I  think  the  best  thing  I 
can  do  is  to  go  away — back  to  Chelmsford;  nobody 
wants  me  here.  I  am  only  in  the  way,  and  now  I  have 
become  a  disgrace  and  a  scandal  to  everybody  as 
well." 

"My  dear  child,  you  can't  go  back;  have  you  not 
heard?  Your  Aunts  Fielding  have  gone  to  Cannes.  Maria 
Fielding's  cough  was  worse,  and  your  uncle  sent  them  a 
cheque  for  ^100  to  help  expenses,  if  they  cared  to  go 
abroad  while  you  were  here.  They  started  last  week." 

A  few  days  earlier  I  should  have  received  this  news 
with  the  greatest  joy — glad  that  my  dear  old  aunts  had 
at  last  fulfilled  the  dream  of  their  lives;  but  now  it  filled 
me  with  nothing  but  dread  and  foreboding. 

Why  should  Uncle  Guy  have  sent  them  ;£ioo?  He 
was  not  particularly  fond  of  them,  and  to  my  certain 
knowledge  had  never  sent  them  a  penny  before.  Why 


136  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

now,  of  all  times?  The  surface  reason  was,  of  course, 
that  they  could  move  more  easily  and  cheaply,  now  that 
they  were  relieved  of  my  burden,  but  somehow  this  failed 
to  satisfy  me.  It  was  so  unlike  Uncle  Guy  to  send  them 
that  ;£ioo.  It  was  so  unlike  him  to  bother  himself  at 
all  about  the  welfare  of  two  poor  threadbare  old  maids 
vegetating  at  Chelmsford. 

The  effect  of  Aunt  Harriet's  announcement  on  me  was 
indescribable.  I  felt  that  the  only  two  people  in  the 
world  who  loved  me,  and  whom  I  could  really  trust,  were 
a  thousand  miles  away,  with  a  cruel  stretch  of  sea 
between. 

"In  that  case,"  I  said,  "I  think  I  shall  drown  myself. 
I  am  only  a  nuisance  and  a  trouble  to  every  one." 

"My  dear  Josephine,"  said  my  aunt,  "you  must  not 
allow  yourself  to  be  so  easily  depressed  and  dispirited. 
You  must  understand  that  none  of  us  attach  the  slightest 
blame  to  you  for  last  night's — ahem! — contretemps. 
I  have  seen  Norman,  and  he  takes  the  whole  blame  upon 
himself." 

"Does  he?"  I  said,  laughing  miserably;  "that  is  gen- 
erous of  him." 

"Hush,  my  dear;  pray  control  yourself.  No,  we  are 
not  blaming  you,  but  we  are  very  much  concerned  about 
your  future.  You  see,  unhappily,  a  story  like  this  sticks 
to  a  girl  for  life.  However  much  a  man  may  be  attracted 
to  a  girl,  he  naturally  fights  shy  of  her  when  she  has 
once  tontbee  en  discredit.  Of  course,  Norman  is  very 
greatly  to  blame — inexcusably,  in  fact — but  he  is  a  gen- 
tleman at  heart,  and  he  is  prepared  to  make  the  only 
reparation  in  his  power." 

"Yes?"  I  said,  dully.      "What  reparation?" 

"Norman  is  prepared,  and  indeed  even  anxious,   to 


A   LECTURE    FROM   AUNT    HARRIET     137 

marry  you  as  soon  as  possible.  He  is,  as  you  perhaps 
know,  extremely  attached  to  you,  and  though  I  had 
other  hopes  for  him,  and  though  I  cannot  say  I  person- 
ally approve  of  first  cousins  marrying,  still,  on  the  whole, 
I  think  it  is  the  only  thing  possible  for  either  of  you — 
certainly  the  only  thing  for  you." 

"Why  the  only  thing  for  me?" 

"My  dear  child,  you  must  surely  see  that  you  are  to 
a  certain  extent  souillee  by  what  has  happened.  These 
things  are  not  easily  forgotten,  and  they  make  it  very 
difficult  sometimes  for  a  girl  to  marry." 

"Why  should  I  want  to  marry?"  I  cried.  "I  should 
make  a  splendid  old  maid;  I'm  so  methodical." 

"Hush,  Josephine;  you  are  excited  and  overwrought, 
and  I  hardly  wonder  at  it;  but  try  and  look  at  things 
sensibly.  For  a  girl  like  you,  penniless,  and  practically 
homeless,  it  is  of  paramount  importance  that  you  should 
marry.  If  anything  were  to  happen  to  your  aunts,  you 
would  be  thrown  on  the  world." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  I  could  go  out  as  a  governess  or  some- 
thing," I  said. 

"No,  my  dear,  indeed  you  could  not!  You  are  so 
lamentably  ignorant!  You  cannot  even  play  the  piano 
decently." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  drown  myself!"  I  said;  "nobody 
would  care." 

"But  there  is  not  the  slightest  need  for  anything  so 
tragic  and  senseless.  You  can  marry  Norman,  and  have 
everything  in  the  world  that  a  girl  can  want." 

"I  can't  marry  Norman,  Aunt  Harriet!" 

"But  why  not?" 

"Oh,  a  hundred  reasons!" 

"I  suppose  it's  that  Mr.  Grayle,  is  it?" 


138  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Mr.  Grayle  doesn't  care  about  me,  Aunt  Harriet; 
so  he  can  make  no  possible  difference." 

"Mr.  Grayle  undoubtedly  heard  the  whole  story  from 
Frenetzi.  There  can  be  no  possible  question  about 
that;  and  having  heard  it,  it  is  extremely  improbable 
that  he  would  care  to  marry  you.  What  can  you  expect?" 

"Oh,  I  expect  nothing,"  I  said,  "and  I  wish  I  was 
dead!" 

For  the  second  time  that  morning  I  burst  into  tears, 
and  sobbed  madly,  with  my  face  buried  in  the  silk  cush- 
ions. Aunt  Harriet  knelt  by  me  and  kissed  me  gently. 

"Poor  child!"  she  said,  "you  must  not  take  this  so 
much  to  heart.  It  will  all  come  right  in  the  end,  I  hope. " 

I  looked  up  in  amazement,  tear-stained  eyes  and  all. 
Aunt  Harriet,  the  austere  and  unapproachable,  was  actu- 
ally crying,  too! 

"Could  you  never  care  for  Norman?"  she  asked, 
plaintively.  "He  is  so  handsome,  and  so  attractive, 
and — and  the  advantages  to  you  would  be  so  great." 

I  rose,  and  flung  my  arms  round  her  neck,  kissing  her 
passionately,  and  blubbering  freely  on  her  grey  silk  dress. 

"Dear,  dear  Aunt  Harriet,"  I  sobbed,  "I  love  you 
very  much,  and  Uncle  Guy,  too — and  you  have  all  been 
so  kind  to  me — so  kind  and  good — but  I  can't  marry 
Norman — I  really  can't!" 

"There,  there,  my  dear,"  she  said;  "don't  fret — don't 
fret.  If  you  can't,  you  can't,  and  there's  an  end  of  it; 
but  it  was  for  your  own  sake.  Norman,  of  course,  can 
marry  any  one  he  likes ;  he  has  only  to  pick  and  choose. ' ' 

She  drew  herself  up,  as  though  ashamed  of  the  glimpse 
of  human  kindness  she  had  shown;  I  suppose,  too,  she 
was  offended  at  my  not  jumping  at  Norman — naturally 
she  would  be. 


A   LECTURE   FROM    AUNT    HARRIET     139 

"I  know  it's  all  for  my  sake,  Aunt  Harriet,"  I  said, 
"and  I  know  that  I'm  not  worth  it,  but  the  truth  is,  I 
don't  want  to  marry  any  one — I  only  want  to  be  left  in 
peace." 

"Very  well,  then,  my  dear,  you  shall  be  left  in  peace; 
but  if  you  think  that  Mr.  Grayle  will  marry  you,  you  are 
making  a  very  serious  mistake.  He  knows  the  whole 
story,  and  he  will  never  look  at  you  again,  you  may  be 
sure  of  that — no  man  would.  And  now  I  think  you  had 
better  go  and  get  ready  for  luncheon;  the  gong  will  ring 
in  a  minute." 

I  went  off  with  the  uncomfortable  feeling  that  I  had 
added  Aunt  Harriet  to  the  list  of  those  who  were  against 
me.  I  felt,  too,  that  there  had  been  one  moment  when 
I  might  easily  have  turned  the  scale  the  other  way;  but 
my  presumption  in  not  jumping  at  Norman  was  a  thing 
she  clearly  could  not  forgive. 

Outside  the  library  door  I  came  suddenly  upon  Uncle 
Guy,  Norman,  and  Father  Terence.  They  were  stand- 
ing in  a  cluster,  and  talking  earnestly — pitching  into 
poor  Norman,  it  seemed  to  me. 

"You  fool!"  I  heard  Father  Terence  say,  in  a  hissing 
kind  of  voice  between  his  teeth.  "You  poor,  faint- 
hearted fool!" 

His  back  was  to  me,  but  Uncle  Guy  saw  me  coming 
along  the  passage,  and  called  out,  hurriedly:  "Hullo! 
little  Joe,  where  do  you  spring  from?  Been  exploring 
the  old  gallery,  eh?  Come  along  to  luncheon." 

He  passed  his  arm  into  mine,  and  led  me  along, 
speaking  volubly.  Norman  slipped  sheepishly  into  the 
library,  and  the  priest  bustled  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
chapel.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face  as  he  brushed 
past  me;  it  was  black  with  fury. 


140  THE    PERILS   OF    JOSEPHINE 

Luncheon  that  day  was  a  miserable  meal.  I  sat  be- 
tween Aunt  Harriet  and  Sophie,  and  tried  to  talk  about 
the  people  who  had  left  that  morning.  I  was  afraid  of 
the  men — afraid  of  them  all,  even  Uncle  Guy.  He 
talked  as  cheerily  as  ever,  but  his  face  looked  pale  and 
drawn,  and  his  eye  was  shifty.  Norman  never  spoke 
at  all,  nor  did  the  priest.  I  had  never  seen  Father  Ter- 
ence look  as  he  did  that  day.  His  face  was  black  as 
thunder,  and  by  no  means  pleasant  to  look  upon.  His 
eyes  never  left  his  plate  or  his  glass,  which  latter  he 
filled  repeatedly  from  the  port  decanter. 

"Coming  for  a  ride,  Joe?"  my  uncle  asked.  "No? 
Well,  one  can  hardly  blame  you — damme,  no — old 
Pasha  is  a  bit  of  a  bone-shaker,  there's  no  doubt  about 
it — not  a  lady's  hack — not  a  lady's  hack!  We  must  try 
and  find  you  something  better  now — something  with  a 
little  more  quality,  eh?  You'll  come,  Norman?"  he  went 
on;  "I  want  to  ride  over  and  see  old  Fothergill  about 
those  dogs." 

"All  right,"  Norman  said,  shortly. 

"Shall  I  come,  too,  papa?"  Sophie  asked. 

"No,  no,  my  dear,  best  not — bore  you  to  death — 
what  does  a  girl  know  about  dogs? — sporting  dogs,  that 
is.  No,  no,  you  stay  at  home." 

"All  right,  Joe,"  she  said,  laughing;  "you  and  I  will 
go  for  a  walk." 

I  saw  them  start  off  about  three,  and  then  I  did  some- 
thing that  I  had  been  longing  to  do  all  day.  I  ran  up 
to  my  room,  and  carefully  wrapped  up  Norman's  brace- 
let in  paper,  sealing  both  ends,  and  addressed  it  to  him 
in  my  big,  sprawling  hand.  Then  I  locked  the  door, 
and  getting  a  chair,  scrambled  on  to  the  broad  marble 
mantelpiece.  The  inside  of  Maurice's  frame  was  elab- 


A   LECTURE    FROM   AUNT    HARRIET     141 

orately  carved,  and  I  struck  a  match,  and  ran  it  up  and 
down  the  left  side  of  the  frame,  where  I  had  seen  Nor- 
man press. 

There  was  nothing  much  to  be  seen  except  a  succes- 
sion of  little  circular  festoons.  I  remembered  distinctly 
whereabouts  it  was  that  Norman's  hand  had  rested  when 
he  pressed  the  spring;  so  I  lighted  a  candle  and  poked 
about  with  my  fingers  till  I  felt  something  give.  I 
pressed  harder,  and  the  frame  swung  slowly  and  noise- 
lessly outwards.  It  struck  me  as  an  extraordinary  thing 
that  a  secret  entrance  of  this  kind  should  open  so 
smoothly  after  all  these  years  of  disuse.  As  a  matter  of 
curiosity,  I  held  the  candle  to  the  hinges,  and  saw  that 
they  had  been  freshly  oiled.  No  words  can  describe  the 
horror  with  which  this  discovery  filled  me.  I  think  it 
appalled  me  more  than  anything  that  had  gone  before. 
I  felt  suddenly  faint  and  dizzy,  and  almost  fell  upon  the 
narrow  stone  steps  within.  So  there  was  a  deliberate 
conspiracy! 

The  horrible  business  of  the  night  before  had  been 
coolly  and  calmly  planned.  Who  could  tell  what  hide- 
ous schemes  might  not  be  brewing  for  the  future?  I 
shuddered  and  shook,  and  for  some  minutes  closed  my 
eyes,  and  leant  limply  against  the  cold,  dust-shrouded 
stone. 

Then,  remembering  Sophie,  I  pulled  myself  together, 
and  took  up  my  candle.  The  place  where  I  was  was 
extraordinarily  narrow.  It  was  simply  a  miniature  stone 
spiral  staircase,  with  very  steep  steps,  not  more  than 
eighteen  inches  long.  I  am  certain  no  fat  person  could 
possibly  have  got  up  or  down.  It  was  inches  deep  in 
dust. 

I  picked  up  my  skirts  as  high  as  I  could,  and  began 


142 

climbing.  Every  now  and  then  there  were  irregular  sort 
of  openings  to  the  left  of  me — that  is,  to  the  outside  of 
the  stairs.  They  appeared  to  have  no  particular  object, 
but  to  be  just  blank  spaces  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall. 
Some  of  them  were  as  much  as  six  or  eight  feet  deep. 
After  mounting  about  twenty  steps,  I  came  to  a  door.  It 
was  a  very  palpable  door,  with  no  attempt  at  disguise, 
and  with  an  ordinary  handle.  I  turned  the  handle  and 
pushed,  and  the  door  opened  slowly  and  heavily,  as 
though  there  was  a  weight  against  it.  I  found  I  was 
pushing  a  bookcase  [into  the  room — a  regular  tall  book- 
case filled  with  books.  The  room  was  empty,  and  I 
slipped  in  through  the  narrow  opening,  and  laid  my 
packet  on  the  table.  It  was  a  big  room — as  big  as  mine, 
only  not  nearly  so  high,  and  not  directly  above  mine,  as 
I  had  imagined — for  my  room  looked  over  the  east  gar- 
den— but  the  windows  of  this  gave  one  a  splendid  view 
across  the  Plain.  For  the  rest,  it  was  bare  and  old-fash- 
ioned-looking, with  no  attempt  at  smartness;  there  were 
two  oak  bookcases  reaching  nearly  to  the  ceiling,  one  of 
which  I  had  pushed  into  the  room,  a  worn,  faded  carpet, 
white  dimity  curtains,  fringed  with  pink,  and  a  white 
wall-paper  with  a  skeleton  diamond  pattern  in  pale  green. 
However,  for  all  this,  it  was  a  cheerful,  comfortable- 
looking  room,  fresh  and  airy,  and  as  I  have  said,  with 
a  splendid  view. 

Sophie,  I  knew,  would  be  waiting  for  me  to  go  out, 
so,  without  stopping  to  make  further  observations,  I 
crept  down  my  little  stairs  and  through  the  open  frame 
of  wicked,  supercilious  Maurice.  I  was  beginning  to 
believe  in  his  wickedness  now. 

For  all  my  care  I  was  \>ne  mass  of  dust,  so  I  changed 


A   LECTURE   FROM   AUNT   HARRIET     143 

my  skirt,  and  took  the  old  one  out  on  to  the  stairs  to 
brush  it  (this  for  fear  of  Griffiths). 

Then  I  called  for  Sophie,  and  we  went  out. 

That  evening  I  borrowed  a  screw-driver  from  Mercer, 
and  took  off  the  handle  that  opened  Maurice's  frame 
from  the  staircase. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

A   CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

T  I  7HAT  a  Christmas!  We  all  gave  and  took  our  little 
*  *  presents,  and  kissed  one  another,  and  said,  "How 
pretty!"  but  there  was  no  life  in  it  at  all.  I  honestly 
tried  to  enjoy  myself,  and  forget  all  about  everything, 
but  it  was  more  than  I  could  manage;  gloom  was  in  the 
atmosphere.  It  was  a  mild  Christmas — no  snow,  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort — but  for  all  that,  huge  fires  blazed  in 
every  room,  and  mistletoe  hung  from  the  ceilings  and 
banisters,  and  forests  of  holly  were  stuck  about  the 
place,  trying  to  cheer  us  up. 

We  ate  mince-pies  and  plum-pudding,  and  we  went  and 
stared  at  the  sideboard,  on  which  every  conceivable  form 
of  cold  meat  that  a  cook's  mind  could  devise  was  mar- 
shalled in  long  rows,  and  we  drank  the  loving-cup,  though 
that  was  not  till  dinner,  and  in  fact,  did  everything  that 
people  ought  to  do  on  Christmas  Day,  except  being 
merry,  and  that  we  could  not  manage.  Father  Terence 
tried  hard,  with  the  help  of  port  and  champagne,  but  his 
merriness  was  not  amusing,  and  fell  flat. 

Two  things  happened  that  day — two  noteworthy 
things,  I  mean. 

After  breakfast  Uncle  Guy  called  me  up. 

"Joe,  little  lady,"  he  said,  "I've  got  a  present  for 
you — a  Christmas  present,  in  return  for  that  delightful 
paper-weight  you  gave  me.  Will  you  come  and  see 'it? 
It's  outside." 

'44 


A   CHRISTMAS    PRESENT  145 

"Outside!"  I  said.     "Why,  what  is  it?" 

"Come  and  see,  come  and  see,  and  don't  ask  so 
many  questions." 

We  passed  through  the  great  hall  to  the  entrance 
door,  and  out  under  the  portico.  Away  to  the  left, 
along  the  broad,  straight,  gravel  drive,  a  stable-boy  was 
leading  a  chestnut  horse — such  a  beauty! 

"Hi!"  shouted  uncle.  "Bring  her  here!  Come 
along,  boy;  run  her  up  smartly!" 

The  boy  ran  as  fast  as  his  tight  breeches  and  gaiters 
would  let  him,  round  the  broad  sweep  of  gravel  before 
the  door;  and  the  horse  trotted  behind,  snorting,  with 
ears  flicking  backwards  and  forwards,  and  head  raised 
and  staring  from  side  to  side.  It  was  a  lovely  creature, 
bright  chestnut,  and  with  the  most  perfect  little  head 
and  neck  ever  seen.  It  could  hardly  be  said  to  step  high 
when  it  trotted,  but  shot  its  legs  out  straight  to  the  front, 
and  hardly  seemed  to  touch  the  ground  with  its  feet. 
I  couldn't  believe  my  senses;  was  this  glorious  beast 
really  for  me?  For  my  very  own?  I  looked  up  doubtfully 
at  my  uncle's  face;  he  couldn't  mean  it — it  was  a  joke! 

Uncle  Guy  was  smiling  at  me  sideways,  as  though  to 
see  how  I  took  it. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "do  you  think  she'll  do?" 

"What  is  it?"  I  said;  "I  don't  remember  seeing  it  in 
the  stables." 

"No,  I  daresay  not,  I  daresay  not,"  he  said,  with  a 
chuckle;  "odd  if  you  had,  considering  she  only  arrived 
from  Newmarket  last  night.  What  is  she,  do  you  say? 
Well,  we  call  her  Maid  Marion,  and  she  is  the  present 
property  of  Miss  Josephine  de  Metrier. " 

I  laughed  loudly,  as  if  he  had  made  an  excellent  joke; 
I  thought  it  the  best  thing  to  do. 


146 

"Gad!"  he  said,  "I  mean  it.  She's  yours  to  do  as 
you  like  with." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  can  ride  her  as  often  as 
I  like,  as  long  as  I  am  here?" 

"No,  Miss  Joe,"  he  said,  "I  do  not;  never  do  things 
by  halves,  you  know — never  do  things  by  halves.  What 
I  mean  is,  that  she's  yours — neck,  body,  and  heels — 
now  and  for  ever." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  give  her  to  me — abso- 
lutely?" 

"I  mean  to  say  that  I  give  her  to  you  absolutely — 
and  unconditionally." 

"Oh!"  I  said,  "it  is  good  of  you!  I  really  don't 
know  how  to  thank  you!" 

"No  thanks,  little  girl,  no  thanks.  Thanks  enough 
for  me  if  you  like  her." 

"Like  her!"  I  said;  "I  shall  love  her.   Is  she  a  racer?" 

"Well,  she  was  a  racer,  but  she  is  not  quite  fast 
enough;  and  she's  such  a  splendid  hack  that  I  thought 
I'd  have  her.here." 

"But  all  racers  pull  so  dreadfully,  don't  they?" 

"Pull!  not  a  bit — mouth  like  velvet.  Here,  Bob, 
jump  on  her  back,  and  give  her  a  spin  down  the  approach. 
Never  mind  the  grass.  Come  here,  and  I'll  put  you  up." 

The  boy  had  been  leading  her  by  a  snaffle,  but  now  he 
threw  the  reins  over  her  neck,  and  led  her  up,  snorting 
and  sidling,  to  where  we  stood.  She  had  no  saddle  on. 

"Now,  up  with  you!"  said  my  uncle,  hoisting  him  on 
to  her  back  by  the  leg,  "and  let's  see  what  sort  of  hands 
you've  got.  Canter  her  up  to  the  iron  gate,  and  then 
let  her  extend  herself  coming  back,  d'you  understand? 
Off  you  go  now!" 

Bob  grinned  from  ear  to  ear,  and  kicking  his  heels 


A   CHRISTMAS    PRESENT  147 

most  irreverently  into  the  mare's  satin  sides,  went  lollop- 
ping  away  up  the  gravel.  As  he  neared  the  iron  gate  he 
swung  round  on  to  the  grass,  and  shaking  her  up  a  bit, 
came  back  at  a  good  smart  gallop.  The  mare  went  like 
an  angel.  She  arched  her  neck  and  played  with  the  bit 
like  a  kitten,  swinging  along  so  smoothly  that  the  boy 
never  moved  on  her  shiny  bare  back. 

"You  darling!"  I  said,  trying  to  kiss  her  soft  muzzle, 
and  getting  a  bump  on  the  nose,  and  a  shower  of  foam 
on  my  dress  in  return.'  "Can  I  ride  her  to-day,  Uncle 
Guy?" 

"Better  not  to-day,  little  Joe,  better  not  to-day; 
she's  only  just  come,  you  see,  and  wants  to  settle  down 
a  bit.  Better  wait  till  Monday." 

This  was  Saturday,  and  Monday  seemed  a  long  way 
off,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it.  When  Uncle  Guy  said 
a  thing,  he  meant  it,  as  all  of  us  had  learnt  by  this 
time. 

"I  think  I  shall  go  and  sleep  in  the  stable  with  her," 
I  said. 

"Yes,  and  get  that  pretty  little  head  of  yours  kicked 
open.  No,  no,  Joe,  even  the  panelled  room's  better 
than  that,  I  think — even  the  panelled  room's  better  than 
that." 

I  stared  at  him,  wondering  what  he  meant,  but  I 
found  nothing  in  his  face;  it  was  the  picture  of  good- 
nature and  kindliness. 

This  was  the  first  event  of  the  day;  the  second  was 
not  so  cheerful. 

We  were  sitting  at  luncheon,  eating  mince-pies,  cov- 
ered with  blazing  brandy,  and  trying  to  be  merry,  when 
we  saw  a  groom  riding  at  full  gallop  across  the  Plain. 

"Looks  like  some  one  from  Ashby, "  said  Uncle  Guy. 


148  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

The  man  galloped  straight  up  to  the  road,  and  then 
slanted  off  in  the  direction  of  the  stables. 

"H'm!  don't  mean  to  honour  us,  anyway." 

We  thought  no  more  about  the  matter  till  Mercer 
presently  entered  the  room  with  an  air  of  more  than 
usual  pomp  and  melancholy,  and  whispered  in  my  uncle's 
ear. 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed,  pushing  back  his  chair; 
"Good  God!  you  don't  say  so!  The  Duke  is  dead!" 

We  all  stared  at  Mercer  rather  than  at  Uncle  Guy, 
and  he,  responding  readily  to  the  appeal,  said: 

"Yes,  a  groom  has  just  left  word  that  His  Grace  died 
this  morning  at  eleven  o'clock.  Hangela pectoris,  they 
think  it  was." 

"How  truly  shocking!"  moaned  Aunt  Harriet,  with 
uplifted  hands.  "Poor  dear  man!  And  on  such  a  day, 
too!  It's  too  dreadful!" 

"I  thought  him  a  bit  shaky  the  other  day  when  he 
was  here,"  Uncle  Guy  said.  "Shot  badly,  too — devilish 
bad!" 

The  rest  of  us  stared  at  one  another  helplessly;  it  was 
not  easy  to  volunteer  appropriate  remarks. 

"Well,  this  will  be  a  finisher  for  young  Grayle," 
Father  Terence  remarked.  "Lord  Barham  can't  stand 
him — always  away  hunting,  he  says,  or  shooting,  or 
something." 

"Yes,"  agreed  my  uncle;  "he'll  bundle  him  out  pretty 
quick  now — hates  a  gentleman  agent — always  did — 
always  did!" 

I  had  little  doubt  that  this  was  all  for  my  benefit — all 
this  about  Sydney,  I  mean — but  I  finished  my  mince-gie 
with  an  unmoved  face — at  least  I  think  so. 

This  bit  of  news  gave  an   immense  stimulus  to  the 


A   CHRISTMAS    PRESENT  149 

conversation.  Every  one  cheered  up  at  once — every 
one,  that  is,  except  poor  me — for  Father  Terence's  shot 
had  told  heavily.  Not  that  I  saw  with  any  great  clear- 
ness all  that  this  possible  dismissal  of  Sydney's  might 
mean  for  me;  I  don't  think  I  troubled  myself  to  look 
close  into  the  details  of  the  thing  at  all;  I  was  too 
dazed,  what  with  one  thing  and  another,  and  too  callous 
perhaps.  Everything  was  combining  so  against  me  that 
there  seemed  no  use  in  worrying  over  anything,  or  in 
fighting  any  more  against  fate.  All  I  knew  was  that  it 
was  another  blow,  and  I  bent  my  head  to  it  meekly  and 
sullenly. 

That  evening  Norman  tried  to  make  it  up  with  me. 
I  was  sitting  at  the  far  end  of  the  library,  reading,  when 
he  came  in.  He  walked  straight  up  to  the  fire,  and  stood 
with  his  back  to  it. 

"Joe,"  he  said,  "will  you  forgive  me,  and  make 
friends?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  will,  Norman — only  too  thankfully; 
I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  play  cat  and  dog." 

"It  was  only  a  joke,  you  know — a  practical  joke." 

"A  poor  sort  of  joke  for  me,"  I  said.  "Jokes  that 
ruin  girls'  lives  are  not  very  gentlemanly,  are  they?" 

"Joe,"  he  said,  dropping  on  his  knees  by  the  side  of 
my  chair,  "it  was  a  brutal,  caddish  thing  to  do,  I  know; 
but,  on  my  honour,  it  was  only  done  for  love  of  you." 

"Well,  Heaven  save  me  from  such  love  as  that!"  I 
said,  earnestly. 

"No,  no,  you  don't  understand.  I  thought  it  might 
force  you  to  marry  me,  that's  the  real  truth;  and  to  get 
you  to  marry  me  I  think  I'd  do  anything  in  the  world." 

"However  low  and  base?" 


150  THE   PERILS   OF  JOSEPHINE 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

I  looked  at  him  with  a  kind  of  wonder.  There  was 
no  doubt  about  his  earnestness;  his  face  was  all  drawn 
and  pale,  and  I  think  he  was  trembling.  He  held  my 
hand,  and  nubbled  it  between  his  own  two. 

"O  Joe,  you  can't  understand  such  love  as  mine — how 
could  one  expect  you  to?  I  would  walk  barefoot  to 
London  to  win  you,  and  will,  too,  for  a  word  from  you." 

"And  yet,  with  all  this  great  love,  you  could  do  what 
you  did  the  other  night!" 

"Yes.  I  thought,  you  see,  you  would  have  to  marry  me 
after  that.  And,  then,  Joe,  there  are  other  things 
behind  that  you  know  nothing  about.  I  am  not  my  own 
master.  I  am  being  driven  and  bullied  and  sworn  at. 
Oh,  you  don't  know — you  don't  know  all  that's  going 
on." 

"What  is  it,  Norman?"  I  whispered,  bending  forward; 
"I  have  felt  all  along  that  there  is  something." 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you,  Joe;  it's  an  old,  old  story — 
fifty  years  old  and  more — a  sort  of  family  ghost,  you 
know,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 

"And  you  won't  tell  me  what  it  is?" 

"No,  I  can't.  I'm  sworn  to  secrecy.  You  wouldn't 
have  me  break  my  word?" 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  shrugging  my  shoulders;  "no  one 
wants  you  to  do  that.  After  all,  it  doesn't  matter  to 
me." 

"Then  you'll  make  friends,  Joe?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you'll  forget  all  about  the  other  night?" 

"Yes." 

"But  you  won't  marry  me?  O  Joe,  don't  say  'you 
won't,  for  God's  sake,  don't  say  you  won't!" 


A   CHRISTMAS    PRESENT  151 

He  clutched  my  hand,  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

"Don't!"  I  cried,  angrily;  "what's  the  use  of  that? 
How  can  we  possibly  be  friends  if  you  do  that  sort  of 
thing?  It's  stupid." 

"All  right,"  he  said,  jumping  to  his  feet;  "I  won't 
bother  you  any  more,  if  that's  the  way  of  it.  Let's  be 
friends,  and  friends  only.  But  whatever  we  are,  Sydney 
Grayle's  no  go  now,  I  can  tell  you  that  much." 

"Thanks  to  you." 

"Yes,  thanks  to  me.  Why  should  I  help  another  fel- 
low to  get  you?" 

"I  like  that,"  I  said,  scornfully.  "Much  help  he 
wanted  from  you,  indeed!  He  has  got  me,  thank  you, 
and  always  will  have,  what's  more." 

"Joe,"  he  said,  seriously,  "if  you  only  knew  what  a 
lot  of  trouble  it  would  save  if  you  would  only  marry 
me." 

"Now,  look  here,  Norman,"  I  said,  jumping  up,  "if 
we're  going  to  be  friends,  there  must  be  an  end  to  this 
sort  of  thing.  You  may  just  as  well  understand,  once 
and  for  all,  that  I  shall  never  marry  you — never,  never, 
NEVER — not  if  Mr.  Grayle  were  to  marry  half  a  dozen 
other  people." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Norman.  "I  quite  understand. 
It  is  by  no  means  necessary  to  emphasise  it  so;  besides, 
from  what  I  know  of  him,  Grayle  is  the  very  last  person 
to  put  himself  within  reach  of  the  law  by  marrying  six 
people  at  once." 

"Oh,  well,  if  he  married  only  one  it  would  be  just  the 
same,"  I  said,  idiotically. 

"Yes,"  said  Norman,  and  stared  up  at  the  fire- 
flecked  ceiling.  After  a  minute  or  so  he  came  up  to  me, 
and  held  out  his  hand. 


152  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Well,  little  Joe,"  he  said,  smiling,  "we're  to  be 
friends,  then,  in  spite  of  everything  that's  gone." 

"Yes,"  I  said  with  emphasis,  "friends." 

"Oh,  I  quite  understand,"  he  said.  "Well,  being 
friends,  I  shall  now  perform  my  first  act  of  friendship." 

"What's  that?"  I  asked,  staring  up  at  him. 

He  walked  to  the  far  end  of  the  room,  and  tried  the 
door.  Then,  coming  back,  he  leant  over  me  and  whis- 
pered, "Don't  you  ride  that  chestnut  mare,  Joe." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  cried.     "Not  ride  it!" 

"No,  don't  ride  it.     Take  my  advice." 

"But  why  not?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  but  these  thoroughbred  mares 
are  shifty,  unreliable  brutes,  especially  when  they  are 
chestnuts;  and  you  have  not  had  very  much  practice  in 
riding,  you  know." 

"But  she's  as  quiet  as  a  lamb,  Norman,"  I  said.  "I 
saw  Bob  cantering  her  about,  bare-backed,  in  front  of 
the  house;  a  child  could  ride  her." 

"Don't  you  get  on  her,"  said  Norman,  doggedly. 

"Why?  Is  she  vicious?  Do  you  know  anything  about 
her?"  I  asked. 

"No,  I  know  absolutely  nothing  about  her;  but  I  am 
afraid — horribly  afraid." 

He  looked  straight  before  him,  and  avoided  meeting 
my  eye. 

"You  are  very  mysterious,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  possibly  I  am.  But  I  know  what  I  am  talking 
about.  Don't  you  get  on  her,  at  any  price." 

"It  seems  to  me  you  have  either  said  too  much  or  too 
little." 

"Perhaps  I  have ;  but  that's  all  I'm  going  to  say.  It's 
quite  enough  for  your  purpose." 


A   CHRISTMAS    PRESENT  153 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Uncle  Guy  would  let  me 
ride  a  horse  that  was  dangerous?" 

"I  mean  nothing,"  he  said,  looking  dreadfully  fright- 
ened; "you  have  had  my  advice,  take  it  or  leave  it." 

"In  that  case,"  I  said,  "I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you,  but  I  shall  certainly  leave  it.  I  never  heard  such  a 
preposterous  idea." 

"All  right,"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders;  "please 
yourself,  only  don't  say  I  didn't  warn  you.  Well,  good- 
bye, Joe,  I  must  be  off  now;  I'm  glad  we're  friends, 
anyhow." 

He  strolled  slowly  away,  and  I  sat  alone  and  brooded. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

AN    AFTERNOON    RIDE 

Monday  morning  I  got  a  letter. 
I  found  Father  Terence  examining  the  envelope 
as  it   lay   on   the   marble   table   outside   the  breakfast 
room. 

"Ah!  Miss  Joe,"  he  exclaimed,  cheerily,  "how  are  you 
this  morning?  But,  indeed,  I  needn't  ask;  you're  look- 
ing grand — fresh  as  a  summer  rose,  be  Gad!" 

"Thank  you,"  I  said;  "I'm  very  well." 

"I  think  I  saw  a  letter  for  you  somehere  here.  Ah, 
yes,  here  it  is." 

He  handed  it  me,  with  a  smirk  and  a  bow,  and  I 
rammed  it  hastily  into  my  pocket,  to  be  read,  at  leisure, 
after  breakfast.  I  had  recognised  the  writing. 

The  moment  breakfast  was  over,  I  rushed  off  to  the 
schoolroom,  and  tore  my  letter  open.  How  much  de- 
pended on  the  contents  none  but  myself  could  ever 
dream.  The  first  line  was  enough  for  me.  I  sank  back 
limply  in  my  chair,  and  closed  my  eyes.  So  it  was  all 
over;  all  over  for  ever  and  ever  and  ever! 

"DEAR  Miss  DE  METRIER,"  I  read,  "owing  to  the  Duke's 
death,  I  have  lost  my  position  here  as  agent,  and  am  now,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  a  beggar.  Under  these  circumstances,  I 
hasten  to  set  you  free  from  an  engagement  which  I  have  every 
reason  to  believe  was  not  a  necessary  condition  of  your  happiness. 
As  soon  as  I  can  get  things  in  order,  I  shall  first  visit  my  mother 
in  Scotland,  and  then  sail  for  America,  where  I  hope  to  succeed  in 

154 


AN   AFTERNOON   RIDE  155 

making  a  living  for  myself.  Thanking  you  for  the  share  of  your 
favour  with  which  you  have  honoured  me  in  the  past. — I  am,  yours 
very  truly,  SYDNEY  GRAYLE." 

I  wasted  no  time  in  thought  when  I  had  once  read 
this.  I  dashed  at  the  writing-table,  and  seized  the  near- 
est pen. 

"  DEAR  MR.  GRAYLE,"  I  wrote, "  I  am  truly  sorry  to  hear  that 
you  have  lost  the  agency  at  Ashby,  and  that  it  will  be  necessary 
for  you  to  go  to  America.  However,  it  will  be  a  great  blessing  for 
you  having  no  one  to  look  after  except  yourself.  Perhaps  you 
will  marry  some  one  out  there — a  negress,  perhaps,  or  a  millionair- 
ess; a  penniless  wife  is  a  terrible  drag  around  anybody's  neck; 
remember,  please,  that  they  are  always  things  to  be  avoided,  and 
shunted,  and  thrown  over.  Wishing  you  all  prosperity  and  good 
luck  with  the  negress. — I  am,  yours  very  truly, 

"JOSEPHINE   DE   METRIER." 

I  sealed  and  posted  it  then  and  there,  dropping  it  into 
the  letter-box  outside  the  dining-room.  How  any  self- 
respecting  girl  out  of  Hanwell  could  have  written  such  a 
letter,  I  don't  know;  it  was  neither  logical,  witty,  nor 
grammatical.  But  I  never  stopped  to  think;  I  just 
dashed  at  it,  and  dropped  it  into  the  box,  and  half  an 
hour  later  the  box  was  cleared,  and  repentance  was 
useless. 

So  I  whistled  loudly  down  the  passage,  and  ran  up  to 
the  stable  to  see  Maid  Marion  and  give  her  a  carrot ; 
and  I  gave  one,  too,  to  old  Pasha,  and  told  him  I  was 
sorry  not  to  ride  him  any  more  (which  was  not  strictly 
true),  and  that  he  was  an  old  dear,  and  I  loved  him 
(which  was  quite  true),  and  that  I  was  not  going  to  ride 
Maid  Marion  because  she  was  younger  and  faster,  but 
because  I  was  afraid  Uncle  Guy  would  be  offended  if  I 
didn't.  To  all  of  which  the  Pasha  listened  sedately, 
with  pricked  ears  and  open  nostril.  Then  I  ran  down 


156  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

to  the  house  again,  whistling  and  singing,  and  feeling 
quite  sure  I  didn't  care  tuppence  if  Sydney  Grayle  went 
to  the  North  Pole  or  to  Timbuctoo. 

Every  one  remarked  what  good  spirits  I  was  in  that 
day  at  luncheon.  I  said  it  was  because  I  was  going  to 
ride  the  mare.  I  came  down  in  my  habit,  and  we  were 
to  start  directly  after  luncheon,  so  as  to  get  a  good  long 
ride  before  dark.  Sophie  was  coming,  and  Uncle  Guy, 
too;  he  was  anxious  to  see  how  the  mare  went  the  first 
day. 

"I  do  hope,"  said  Aunt  Harriet,  "she  won't  kick  or 
pull  or  run  away,  or  anything.  I  can't  bear  new  horses 
myself,  they  are  so  horribly  uncertain." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  nonsense!"  said  my  uncle,  gruffly. 
"Don't  get  frightening  the  child  with  your  silly  notions. 
Nothing  makes  any  horse  run  away  except  the  rider  him- 
self." 

Aunt  Harriet  shook  her  head  doubtfully.  She  was 
always  nervous,  and  saw  foolhardiness  in  any  venture 
outside  the  glass  case  that  surrounded  her  own  life. 

Uncle  Guy  talked  incessantly  during  luncheon,  but  I 
thought  he  looked  pale  and  worried.  I  had  an  idea 
money  matters  had  been  bothering  .him  lately.  Father 
Terence,  on  the  other  hand  was,  for  him,  extraordinarily 
silent. 

They  all  came  out  to  see  us  start.  Maid  Marion 
looked  lovely  as  the  groom  led  her  up  and  down  the 
gravel  sweep.  I  gave  her  a  piece  of  sugar,  and  then 
Uncle  Guy  put  me  up,  and  as  Sophie  was  not  down  yet, 
I  trotted  her  to  the  iron  gate,  and  then  cantered  her 
back  along  the  grass.  She  went  like  an  angel !  I  had 
never  been  on  a  thoroughbred  before,  and  the  difference 
from  dear  old  Pasha  was  something  perfectly  astonish- 


AN   AFTERNOON   RIDE  157 

ing.  She  arched  her  neck,  and  swept  over  the  ground 
like  oil,  without  pulling  or  fussing  or  jolting  one  about 
in  the  way  Pasha  used  to  do  if  one  ever  took  him  out  of 
a  slow  canter.  They  all  praised  her,  and  patted  her, 
and  even  Aunt  Harriet  allowed  that  she  seemed  "a  nice, 
gentle  creature." 

"Indeed,  you  just  seem  made  for  one  another," 
Father  Terence  said. 

Sophie  came  running  down,  full  of  apologies,  and  we 
started. 

Uncle  Guy  proposed  riding  out  at  the  Slade  Lodge, 
and  on  to  Ashby  Park.  This,  of  course,  took  us  across 
the  Plain,  and  when  one  went  across  the  Plain  the  obvi- 
ous thing  to  do  was  to  gallop.  However,  uncle  wouldn't 
have  this. 

"No,  no,"  he  said.  "Too  soon  after  luncheon — 
play  the  deuce  with  me  if  I  were  to  start  galloping  for 
another  ten  minutes  yet.  Must  take  your  pace  from  the 
old  'un,  you  know." 

So  we  walked  across  the  Plain,  Maid  Marion  dancing 
a  little,  and  flicking  her  ears  backwards  and  forwards  as 
though  she  saw  as  well  as  we  did  that  the  place  was 
literally  made  for  a  gallop. 

When  we  were  about  half-way  across  I  turned  to 
Uncle  Guy. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "surely  we  can  go  now?  We  shall  be 
at  the  other  side  before  we  start  if  we  don't  take 
care." 

Uncle  Guy  was  a  little  behind,  and  I  had  to  turn  half 
round  to  see  him.  When  I  caught  sight  of  his  face  I  was 
perfectly  horrified.  He  was  as  white  as  death,  and  had 
the  look  on  his  face  of  a  man  in  terrible  pain. 

"Good  gracious!"  I  cried,  "are  you  ill?" 


158  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"No,  no,"  he  said;  "nothing  at  all,  nothing  at  all 
that's  to  say;  slight  pain  in  the  side;  be  all  right 
directly.  Yes,  may  as  well  have  a  gallop  now;  do  me 
good,  do  me  good." 

So  we  started  off,  Sophie  and  I  side  by  side,  and  my 
uncle  just  behind,  pounding  along  on  his  big  brown  horse. 
The  mare  pulled  more  than  I  liked,  but  not  more  than  I 
could  manage  with  a  little  attention.  I  was  an  inexperi- 
enced rider,  and  I  have  little  doubt  a  bad  one,  but  I  was 
not  nervous.  In  fact,  I  preferred  an  animal  that  occu- 
pied one's  attention  to  one  that  moved  along  like  a  cow. 
It  was  so  much  more  interesting.  So  at  first  I  exulted 
wildly  in  the  tosses  of  Maid  Marion's  head,  and  her  wild 
snatches  at  the  bridle,  but  not  for  long.  For  suddenly, 
when  we  had  gone  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  or  so,  with- 
out the  slightest  vestige  of  warning,  she  bolted.  There 
was  no  intermediate  stage;  the  whole  thing  was  done  in 
a  second.  One  moment  she  was  cantering  along  con- 
tentedly and  sanely,  the  next  she  was  dashing  wildly 
through  the  air  with  all  the  mad  clatter  of  a  runaway. 

No  one  who  has  never  been  run  away  with  can  have 
an  idea  of  the  utter  misery  of  the  feeling.  You  are  at 
the  absolute  mercy  of  a  mad,  irresponsible  beast  of 
twenty  times  your  own  strength.  It  is  horrible!  The 
part  of  the  Plain  where  we  first  started  galloping  was 
slightly  up  hill,  and  remained  so  for  nearly  half  a  mile. 
Here,  if  ever,  was  my  only  chance  of  stopping  the  mare, 
and  I  tugged  and  hauled  till  my  arms  were  numb,  but  I 
might  as  well  have  hauled  at  a  steam  engine.  Like  a 
whirlwind  we  raced  up  the  incline,  with  the  wind  blind- 
ing my  eyes  and  whistling  madly  past  my  ears.  It  was  all 
plain  sailing,  and  there  was  nothing  to  fear  as  far  as  the 
crest.  But  afterwards!  The  very  thought  of  afterwards 


AN   AFTERNOON   RIDE  159 

turned  me  sick.  I  knew  the  ground  so  well — the  slope 
downwards,  covered  with  dead  bracken,  and  simply  rid- 
dled with  rabbit  holes,  and  beyond  again  a  stretch  of  park 
forest  still  sloping  downwards  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  till 
it  reached  the  glen  running  up  to  the  Slade  Lodge. 
Quicker  than  it  takes  to  tell,  we  were  over  the  crest, 
and  plunging  headlong  down  the  slope  beyond.  I  had 
no  idea  a  horse  could  go  so  fast.  I  gave  up  trying  to 
stop  her  now;  I  should  have  been  pulled  over  her  head  if 
I  had  tried;  I  just  sat  still  and  tried  to  steer. 

Straight  ahead  of  us  lay  a  huge  rabbit  burrow — a  per- 
fect honeycomb  in  sand.  There  was  no  thought  of 
steering  here.  I  leant  back  and  waited  numbly  for  the 
crash.  But  there  was  no  crash  then — nothing  but  a 
frightful  stumble  that  shot  me  with  a  crash  right  on  to 
the  mare's  neck,  and  a  lightning  recovery  that  shot  me 
back  again  with  a  big  bump  over  my  left  eye,  and  we 
were  racing  down  the  hill  again  as  madly  as  ever. 
Through  the  long,  dead  bracken  we  crashed,  tearing  it 
out  by  the  roots  in  bushels  as  though  it  had  been  ground- 
sel; the  stuff  clung  round  the  mare's  legs  like  long  stock- 
ings, but  she  kept  her  feet.  Beyond  I  could  see  another 
burrow,  and  beyond  that  again  the  trees!  I  remember 
craning  forward  and  wondering  vaguely  which  of  them 
would  be  the  one  to  dash  my  brains  out.  But  I  was  not 
frightened,  not  even  excited,  though  I  hadn't  the  faint- 
est hope  in  my  own  mind  of  ever  coming  through  alive. 
The  thing  seemed  a  sheer  impossibility,  and  I  think, 
perhaps,  it  was  this  utter  absence  of  hope  that  made  me 
so  callous  and  unmoved.  My  chief  feeling,  I  remember, 
was  one  of  dull  curiosity  as  to  what  this  sort  of  death 
would  feel  like;  also,  I  wondered,  like  a  flash,  if  Sydney 
would  be  a  little  sorry  when  he  heard  of  it,  and  whether 


160  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

he  would  come  to  the  funeral,  and  wear  mourning  after- 
wards. 

I  hoped  rather  he  would. 

Then  we  came  to  the  second  burrow.  There  was 
another  appalling  stumble — a  stumble  that  would  have 
sent  old  Pasha  head  over  heels  like  a  shot  hare — and 
another  amazing  scramble  and  recovery,  and  we  were 
among  the  trees — great  antediluvian  giants  stretching 
out  their  long,  twisted  limbs  to  tear  me  from  the  saddle. 
I  bent  level  with  the  mare's  neck,  and  let  her  go  her  own 
way.  Where  she  could  go,  I  could  go,  I  thought,  but 
the  question,  of  course,  was,  could  she  go?  Was  there 
room  between  or  under  the  spread  of  those  branches  for 
any  horse,  tearing  along  at  that  breakneck  pace,  to  pass? 
Thought  is  quick,  but  scarcely  quicker  than  the  beat 
of  the  mare's  legs  as  she  plunged  into  that  wilderness  of 
trees.  The  answer  would  soon  come  now.  I  shut  my 
eyes,  and  clasped  my  arms  round  the  mare's  neck,  press- 
ing my  head  close  down  against  her  shoulder.  A  fearful 
blow  across  my  legs  made  me  think  the  end  had  come  at 
the  beginning;  it  sent  the  little  mare  reeling  to  the  right, 
but  our  pace  was  not  checked.  Other  blows  followed, 
quick  as  a  shower  of  hail.  My  hat  was  torn  off,  my  hair 
dragged  down  and  pulled  out  in  handfuls.  I  was 
bruised,  battered,  and  bleeding,  faint  and  sick,  but  the 
blow  that  was  to  dash  me  broken-backed  and  senseless 
to  the  ground  had  not  yet  come.  I  wondered  why  not. 

A  long  wooden  arm  clutched  me  round  the  waist,  and 
with  hard,  spiky  fingers  tried  to  drag  me  from  the  sad- 
dle. I  tightened  my  grip  round  the  mare's  neck  till  I 
thought  I  should  be  torn  in  two.  I  think  I  screamed  out 
with  the  pain.  And  then  there  was  a  crack  of  splintering 
wood,  the  clutch  of  the  wooden  arm  gave  way,  and  we 


AN   AFTERNOON    RIDE  161 

burst  out  into  the  open.  Three  hundred  yards  of 
bracken  stretched  before  us,  and  beyond  again  trees--- 
cruel,  death-dealing  trees! — but  in  the  centre  of  the 
bracken  lay  the  smooth  green  ride  that  led  up  to  the 
Slade  Lodge.  If  I  could  get  into  that  I  might  be  safe! 
I  clenched  my  teeth,  and  leant  back,  and  with  both 
hands  hauled  with  all  my  strength  at  the  left  rein.  I 
knew  the  danger  of  it — the  awful  danger! — the  all  but 
certainty  of  a  crushing,  murderous  fall.  But  then  be- 
yond were  the  trees,  and  my  strength  was  nearly  gone, 
and  there  was  no  other  way. 

The  mare's  head  came  round  to  my  knees,  but  she 
still  went  boring  on,  crashing  at  the  same  breakneck 
pace  through  the  long  fern.  I  thought  she  must  fall. 

I  still  believe  any  horse  in  the  world  except  Maid 
Marion  must  have  fallen.  But  she — she  just  went  on 
galloping  like  a  crab,  with  her  head  round  at  my  knees, 
and  her  legs  the  other  way,  pecking  and  stumbling  fear- 
fully, but  never  falling. 

And  all  the  while,  slowly  but  surely,  she  was  little  by 
little  edging  to  the  left. 

We  were  within  five  yards  of  the  ride,  and  I  threw 
back  the  whole  of  my  weight,  and  gave  one  final  desper- 
ate tug.  There  was  no  question  about  it  now;  she  must 
either  come  round  or  go  over  like  a  rabbit.  And  she 
came  round — only  about  a  quarter  of  a  point,  but  it 
was  enough.  We  were  in  the  ride,  and  I  was  practically 
safe. 

And  now  that  the  great  and  glaring  danger  was  past, 
there  came  upon  me  for  the  first  time  fear,  real,  genu- 
ine fear,  and  an  overwhelming  wish  to  live.  It  was  still 
nearly  a  mile  to  the  Slade  Lodge,  and  the  ride  ran  the 
whole  way,  and  the  whole  way  it  was  uphill.  Surely,  I 


162  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

thought,  this  should  stop  her!  My  own  strength  was 
gone — it  had  gone  with  a  snap  in  that  last  desperate 
pull — and  I  was  as  weak  as  a  child.  But  still,  a  mile 
uphill,  after  tearing  through  all  that  long,  clinging 
bracken,  surely  that  must  be  enough! 

I  knew  nothing,  you  see,  of  the  endurance  of  thor- 
oughbreds, especially  of  thoroughbreds  that  had  been  in 
training.  And  so,  when  I  found  the  mare  galloping  on, 
strong  as  ever,  and  breasting  the  hill  without  an  effort, 
I  thought  I  was  on  a  steed  possessed  of  the  devil.  Pasha 
would  have  been  dead  long  ago  if  he  had  come  the  pace 
we  had.  And  yet  on  we  went,  a  little  slower,  perhaps, 
as  the  incline  got  steeper,  but  still  full  of  go.  I  gath- 
ered myself  together,  and  hauled  upon  the  reins,  and 
the  mare  slowed  down  a  bit,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it, 
she  did  slow  down,  distinctly;  but  the  moment  I  let  go 
to  take  a  fresh  pull  she  bounded  forward  again  as  fast 
as  ever. 

And  so  we  went  on,  I  getting  weaker  and  weaker,  and 
the  mare  going  on  as  if  she  meant  to  gallop  for  a  week  ; 
and  then  we  came  to  the  final  steep  pitch  that  leads  to 
the  lodge.  I  looked  ahead,  and  saw  the  great  iron  gates 
were  shut.  Of  course  they  were — they  always  were 
kept  shut.  I  wondered  whether  Maid  Marion  would 
charge  them,  or  swerve  to  the  left  and  fling  me  off 
against  the  wall.  Any  swerve  would  have  shot  me  off 
now;  I  was  regularly  reeling  in  the  saddle. 

She  was  going  ever  so  much  slower  up  the  pitch,  and 
with  my  ordinary  strength  I  think  I  could  have  stopped 
her,  but  not  now.  I  was  done. 

I  vaguely  remember  sending  up  a  wild  prayer  for  one 
second  of  the  strength  I  had  had  five  minutes  before;  I 
remember  the  quick,  short  breathing  of  the  mare,  and 


AN   AFTERNOON    RIDE  163 

my  own  feeling  of  utter,  hopeless  misery;  I  remember 
the  sudden  apparition  of  Sydney's  stalwart  form  stand- 
ing in  the  ride,  and  waving  his  arms  like  a  couple  of 
windmills;  I  remember,  in  a  very  feeble  voice  crying 
out,  "Stop  her,  Sydney,  stop  her!"  I  remember  what 
the  old  books  call  a  "mortal  sickness"  coming  over  me, 
and  my  falling  in  a  limp,  helpless  mass,  into  something 
that  held  me  very  tight,  and  then,  for  about  a  minute,  I 
remembered  no  more. 

When  at  the  end  of  it  I  recovered  consciousness, 
I  found  that  Sydney  was  kissing  me  with  immense 
vigour. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  kissing  me,  Mr.  Grayle?"  I 
exclaimed,  faintly;  "you  have  absolutely  no  right  to, 
and  I  call  it  mean  and  cowardly." 

I  tried  hard  to  summon  up  a  certain  show  of  dignity, 
but  it  is  not  easy  when  you  are  lying  on  your  back  on  the 
grass,  panting  like  a  dog. 

"Quite  true!"  he  said,  "it  is!"  And  did  it  again. 
"Are  you  hurt,  Joe?"  he  added. 

I  smiled  inwardly  at  the  name.  He  had  picked  that 
up  at  Selworth. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  think  not — a  bit  bruised  and  bat- 
tered. No,  you  really  must  not  kiss  me,  Mr.  Grayle!" 

"Why  not?" 

"Because — you  know  "perfectly  well  why  not." 

"No.     Tell  me." 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  you  believed  horrid  stories 
about  me." 

In  a  moment  his  manner  changed;  the  mocking  mood 
passed  away  like  a  flash. 

"I  did,  God  forgive  me!"  he  said.  "But  not  now, 
Joe,  not  now." 


164  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Why,"  I  exclaimed,  "has  anything  happened?  Has 
any  one  told  you?" 

"Nothing  has  happened,  and  no  one  has  told  me  any- 
thing; but  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  hold  you  in  his 
arms,  as  I  am  doing,  and  look  into  your  eyes,  and  not 
know  that  you  are  as  true  as  gold." 

"Thank  you!"  I  said,  with  rather  a  derisive  laugh. 

"Joe,"  he  said,  very  earnestly,  "I  see  the  others  are 
coming  up.  Tell  me  before  they  come,  for  God's  sake, 
that  you  are  true,  and  that  you  still  love  me." 

"Both!"  I  said,  with  a  nod. 

"Thank  God!"  he  said.  "And  will  you  come  with 
me  to  America?" 

"I  will  go  with  you  to  the  end  of  the  world,  and  be- 
yond, if  you  like." 

"Really  and  truly?" 

"Yes,  really  and  truly." 

"I  have  no  money,  you  know — not  a  penny." 

"Oh,  bother  the  money!  We  shall  get  along  some- 
how. I  will  dig  potatoes,  or  make  shirts,  or  something. 
I  am  as  strong  as  a  horse." 

"Come  to  the  tree  to-morrow,"  he  whispered,  "and 
we  will  talk  it  over." 

I  heard  the  close  thud  of  hoofs  on  the  grass  ride,  and 
the  next  moment  my  uncle's  voice  calling  out  wildly, 
"Is  she  hurt,  Grayle,  is  she  hurt?" 

"No,"  Sydney  answered,  "I  think  not.  Only  shaken 
and  rather  exhausted." 

"Thank  God!"  he  cried;  "thank  God!  thank  God!" 

He  flung  himself  off  his  horse  and  came  and  knelt  at 
my  side.  His  face  was  white  and  drawn,  and  he  seemed 
quite  unnerved.  He  took  up  my  hand,  and  began  strok- 
ing it  feverishly.  "Thank  God!"  he  kept  saying  over 


AN   AFTERNOON   RIDE  165 

and  over  again.  "Poor  little  girl!  Poor  little  Joe! 
Quite  sure  you're  not  hurt?" 

I  had  never  seen  him  so  moved;  there  were  tears  in 
his  eyes,  and  he  was  trembling  like  a  leaf — much  more 
upset,  in  fact,  than  I  was.  Sophie  stood  on  the  other 
side,  white  and  terrified,  and  Sydney  held  the  two 
horses. 

"I'll  gallop  back  and  send  the  carriage  up  for  you," 
he  said;  "and  the  doctor,  too — best  have  the  doctor. 
O  good  Lord!  good  Lord!  if  you  had  been  killed!" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  I  said;  "I  can  ride  back  per- 
fectly well." 

I  rose  to  my  feet  rather  shakily,  and  began  looking 
about  for  Maid  Marion.  There  she  was,  wicked  thing! 
with  the  reins  dangling  about  her  feet,  munching  the 
coarse  grass  as  peacefully  as  a  Jersey  calf. 

"You  are  surely  not  going  to  ride  that  mare  again?" 
Sydney  said,  starting  forward. 

"Yes;  why  not?" 

"Mr.  de  Metrier,"  he  said,  turning  to  my  uncle, 
"you  positively  cannot  allow  your  niece  to  get  on  that 
dangerous  brute  again.  She  ought  never  to  have  ridden 
it  in  the  first  instance." 

"You  must  allow  me  to  be  the  best  judge  of  that," 
said  my  uncle,  getting  rather  red.  "The  mare  is  as 
quiet  as  a  lamb." 

"Mares  that  are  as  quiet  as  lambs  are  not  in  the  habit 
of  running  away,"  Sydney  answered,  quietly.  "She  is 
evidently  quite  unsafe  for  any  lady  to  ride." 

"Damme,  sir!"  cried  uncle,  fuming  and  puffing  a 
good  deal,  "will  you  have  the  goodness  to  mind  your 
own  business?  What  the  devil  has  it  got  to  do  with 
you?" 


166  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Nothing,  I  suppose,"  said  Sydney;  "but  every. one 
has  a  right  to  express  an  opinion,  and  I  say  emphatic- 
ally that  that  mare  is  not  safe  for  a  lady  to  ride." 

"And  I  say  she  is,  sir,  as  safe  as  any  horse  in  my 
stables." 

Sydney  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"And  you  are  actually  going  to  make  your  niece  ride 
her  home?" 

"My  niece  shall  do  exactly  as  she  likes,  Mr.  Grayle; 
and  that  without  consulting  you  in  the  matter." 

"Oh,  I'm  quite  ready  to  ride  her,  Uncle  Guy,"  I  said. 
"I  am  sure  she  wouldn't  do  it  again." 

"Don't  you  get  on  her,  Joe,"  Sydney  said,  decisively; 
"she's  a  vicious  brute!" 

Whether  it  was  the  name,  or  whether  it  was  the  remark 
or  what,  I  don't  know,  but  Uncle  Guy's  face  turned  pos- 
itively purple  with  rage,  and  I  saw  the  same  look  come 
over  it  as  on  that  terrible  day  when  I  had  first  told  him 
of  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Beddington.  He  seemed  to  find  it 
hard  to  speak;  his  hands  opened  and  shut,  and  his  mouth 
worked  like  a  man's  in  a  fit. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean,  sir?  What  are  you 
insinuating?" 

"I  am  insinuating  nothing,  Mr.  de  Metrier.  Why 
should  I?  I  simply  state  a  fact,  and  that  is,  that  the 
mare  is  vicious,  and  dangerous  for  a  lady  to  ride." 

I  thought  for  a  moment  Uncle  Guy  would  have  hit 
him  with  his  hunting-crop;  there  is  not  much  doubt  he 
would  have  liked  to;  his  face  was  distorted  with  passion. 
Suddenly  he  spun  round  to  where  Sophie  stood  looking 
very  scared. 

"Sophie,"  he  said,  "get  on  the  chestnut;  Josephine 
shall  ride  Norah  home." 


AN   AFTERNOON   RIDE  167 

Poor  Sophie  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  looking  help- 
lessly from  one  to  the  other  of  us. 

"Do  you  hear  me,  girl?"  he  shouted,  stamping  his 
foot;  "don't  stand  there  staring  like  an  idiot." 

She  picked  up  the  skirt  of  her  habit;  and  in  her  long, 
polished  boots  began  tramping  through  the  dead  bracken 
to  where  Maid  Marion  stood  peacefully  cropping  the 
grass.  She  looked  scared  to  death,  poor  Sophie!  No 
wonder;  courage  was  not  her  strong  point. 

"Do  let  me  ride  her,  Uncle  Guy,"  I  pleaded;  "I'm 
quite  right  again  now." 

"Nonsense!"  he  said;  "you're  shaken  and  tired. 
You  get  on  Norah  here ;  I  will  put  you  up  if  you  are 
ready." 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  pretty  glad  of  a  quiet  mount 
home.  When  I  got  on  my  feet  I  found  that  I  could 
hardly  stand.  My  uncle  put  me  up  on  Norah,  and  then 
strode  away  to  where  Sophie  was  fumbling  with  Maid 
Marion's  reins. 

"Up  you  get!"  he  said;  "the  sooner  we're  off  the 
better." 

"Mr.  de  Metrier, "  Sydney  said,  coming  forward, 
"will  you  let  me  lead  the  mare  home  for  you?  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  do  it." 

"No,  sir,  I  will  not,  and  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will 
mind  your  own  business.  I  tell  you  the  mare  is  perfectly 
quiet;  my  daughter  could  ride  her  with  a  thread.  The 
Lord  only  knows  what  it  was  made  her  bolt  before." 

So  poor  Sophie  was  put  up,  trembling,  Uncle  Guy 
climbed  on  to  old  Admiral,  and  we  started  slowly  down 
the  ride.  Sydney  stood  watching  us  for  a  minute,  and 
then  turned  away  in  the  direction  of  the  Lodge. 

Never  shall  I  forget  that  ride  home.     It  was  a  grizzly 


168  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

performance!  None  of  us  spoke — no  one  ever  spoke  to 
Uncle  Guy  when  he  was  in  one  of  his  rages — it  was  not 
safe.  We  rode  in  dead  silence,  and  at  a  foot's  pace, 
towards  the  Plain,  through  the  dead  bracken,  and  be- 
tween the  great  spreading  oaks  that  had  clutched  at  me 
as  I  raced  through.  I  followed  the  track  of  my  mad 
career  with  interest;  the  ragged  furrow  torn  through  the 
fern,  the  uprooted  plants  flung  to  right  and  left,  and  the 
long  slides  ploughing  up  the  sand  of  the  rabbit-burrows. 
I  saw  the  broken  end  of  that  last  wicked  branch  that 
had  gripped  me  so  murderously  round  the  waist,  and 
wondered  how  in  the  world  my  backbone  had  managed 
to  prove  the  stronger  of  the  two. 

Maid  Marion  apparently  troubled  herself  with  none 
of  these  things.  She  stepped  lightly  and  delicately  over 
the  pits  and  trenches  her  hoofs  had  scored  in  the  ground 
twenty  minutes  before,  with  no  signs  about  her  of  any 
such  breakneck  madness  beyond  the  dried  lather  on  her 
smooth  arched  neck.  Sophie  was  still  nervous,  I  could 
see,  but  gaining  a  little  confidence,  I  thought,  from  the 
mare's  quiet,  unexcited  behaviour.  Poor  Sophie!  her 
nerves  were  to  be  tried  before  we  got  home  in  a  way  that 
neither  of  us  expected. 

What  the  idea  was  I  don't  know,  but  I  think  it  was 
simple  obstinacy.  Uncle  Guy  was  still  brooding,  I 
think,  over  Sydney  and  his  remarks — I  could  tell  that 
from  his  silence;  and  I  suppose  he  wanted  to  prove  to 
all  of  us,  including  himself,  that  the  mare  was  perfectly 
quiet  to  ride.  However,  whether  that  was  so  or  not, 
what  happened  was  this.  When  we  were  down  on  the 
level  of  the  Plain  he  turned  suddenly  to  my  cousin  and 
said: 

"Just  canter  home,  Sophie,  and  tell  your  mother  that 


AN   AFTERNOON   RIDE  169 

Josephine  has  been  run  away  with.  Tell  her  she  is  not 
hurt,  you  know,  but  a  little  bit  shaken,  and  ask  her  to 
have  a  hot  bath  ready,  and  some  brandy — nothing  like 
brandy  for  shaken  nerves." 

Sophie  looked  as  though  she  had  been  ordered  to  sud- 
den execution.  Her  jaw  dropped  an  inch,  and  her  poor 
eyes  got  at  least  twice  their  common  size.  I  think  at 
first  she  thought  her  father  was  joking. 

"Now,  off  you  go,"  he  said,  roughly.  "What  are  you 
gaping  at?" 

I  saw  her  look  hopelessly  to  right  and  left,  as  though 
for  some  means  of  escape.  All  the  colour  slowly  left 
her  face,  and  I  could  see  her  hands  shaking.  She  never 
said  a  word,  but  her  face  begged  for  mercy  as  plainly  as 
though  she  were  on  her  knees.  It  was  pathetic. 

"Now  then,  don't  you  hear?"  Uncle  Guy  said  once 
more. 

"I  really  don't  want  any  bath  or  brandy,  either,"  I 
said;  "I'm  perfectly  well,  and  brandy  always  makes  me 
sick." 

"Nonsense,  nonsense!"  he  said;  "can't  have  you  laid 
up,  you  know;  little  girls  must  do  as  they  are  told. 
Hurry  up  now,  Sophie;  we'll  follow  slowly." 

He  lifted  his  crop  and  rode  at  the  mare  as  though  to 
hit  her  on  the  quarters. 

"All  right,  papa;  don't  touch  her!"  Sophie  cried,  in 
a  voice  that  was  almost  a  shriek.  She  shook  the  reins 
and  pressed  the  mare  into  a  canter.  I  saw  her  lean  for- 
ward, and  I  knew  she  was  whispering  soothing  sounds  in 
the  mare's  long,  flicking  ears — those  soothing  sounds 
that  were  in  this  case  almost  a  prayer  for  mercy.  As  for 
me,  I  was  simply  boiling  over  with  indignation.  I 
thought  what  Uncle  Guy  had  done  was  one  of  the  most 


170  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

brutal  things  I  had  ever  seen.  I  was  also  in  mortal  terror 
for  my  poor  Sophie.  If  the  mare  had  bolted  going  away 
from  home,  what  was  she  likely  to  do  now? 

I  was  so  angry,  and  so  frightened,  that  I  think  I  was 
on  the  point  of  saying  something  to  Uncle  Guy;  anyhow, 
I  turned  towards  him  with  anger  against  him  raging 
within  me.  But  when  I  saw  his  face  I  thought  better  of 
it.  He  looked  twice  as  frightened  as  I  did !  His  eyes 
were  following  Sophie's  retreating  form  with  such  a  look 
of  anxious  agony  in  them  as  I  have  never  seen  before  or 
since.  She — Sophie,  that  is — was  lolloping  away  like 
a  hare — or  rather  the  mare  was — going  as  easily  and 
quietly  as  though  running  away  was  a  thing  that  had 
never  entered  her  head  since  the  day  she  was  foaled. 
To  say  that  I  was  surprised  is  to  put  my  feelings  in  very 
mild  terms;  but,  of  course,  my  prevailing  feeling  at  the 
moment  was  one  of  immense  relief — relief  with  a  faint 
background  of  humiliation.  It  was  clearly  a  case  of  my 
bad  hands,  and  Uncle  Guy  was  right  after  all;  the  mare 
was  quiet — quiet  as  a  sheep,  with  proper  riding. 

Aunt  Harriet  met  us  at  the  front  door  with  an  anx- 
ious, scared  face,  and  loud  exclamations  of  thanksgiving 
for  my  escape.  She  had  sent  off  for  the  doctor,  she 
said,  and  in  the  mean  while  I  must  have  a  warm  bath 
and  some  sal  volatile,  and  go  straight  to  bed.  Dear, 
kind  soul!  In  vain  I  told  her  I  wanted  none  of  these 
things — especially  the  first.  What  earthly  good  could 
the  poor  man  do?  There  was  nothing  in  the  world  the 
matter  with  me  beyond  a  few  bruises  and  scratches. 
However,  short  of  open  rebellion  there  was  no  escape 
from  her  persistency,  so,  rather  sulkily,  I  am  afraid,  I 
yielded  to  the  whole  programme — bed,  brandy,  sal  vola- 
tile, doctor,  and  all,  and  even  drank  the  inoffensive  mix- 


AN   AFTERNOON   RIDE  171 

ture  which  the  poor  man  thought  it  necessary  to  send  up. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  rather  glad  to  be  alone  and  think. 
I  wanted  to  think  over  my  hardly-to-be-believed  recon- 
ciliation with  Sydney,  and  his  plan  about  going  to  Amer- 
ica, and  our  scheme  for  meeting  at  Inversnaid  next  day; 
all  these  things  had  to  be  thought  over  and  hugged  and 
gloated  over  as  altogether  too  good  on  the  face  of  them 
to  be  true,  and  yet  things  that  absolutely  and  literally 
were. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

MYSTERY  AND   SUSPICION 

T  WOKE  next  morning  as  stiff  as  a  board.  Unsus- 
•*•  pected  bruises  discovered  themselves  in  various 
colours  all  over  my  body.  My  head  smarted  and  tingled 
where  stray  wisps  of  hair  had  been  torn  out  by  the 
roots;  there  was  a  long  scratch  on  my  left  cheek,  and 
another  over  my  eye.  And  yet,  for  all  these  things,  I 
doubt  if  on  any  day  at  any  time  in  my  life  I  have  jumped 
out  of  bed  with  such  pure  joy  of  soul  as  I  did  that  morn- 
ing. I  threw  open  the  little  latticed  windows  as  wide  as 
they  would  go,  and  craned  out  my  rumpled  head  into 
the  morning  air.  It  was  a  still,  dull  day,  with  little 
patches  of  blue  showing  here  and  there  among  the  grey 
clouds.  Not  the  faintest  breath  of  air  stirred  the  naked 
limbs  of  the  mighty  trees  beyond  the  balustrade.  From 
the  ground  rose  up  the  fresh,  damp  smell  of  dead  leaves — 
very  pleasant  to  my  nostrils — a  real  homy  English  smell. 
My  friend,  the  robin,  was  piping  plaintively  among  the 
holly  bushes,  and  my  other  friends,  the  cock-pheasants, 
were  swaggering  gallantly  about,  picking  up — whatever 
pheasants  do  pick  up — worms,  I  suppose.  I  was  glad 
they  had  not  been  shot. 

Eighty  yards  away,  by  the  steps  to  the  lower  terrace, 
a  gardener  was  tickling  the  path  with  a  broom.  He  took 
no  notice  whatever  of  me;  why  should  he?  He  was  used 
by  this  time  to  such  unkempt  apparitions.  I  expect  he 
had  long  ago  put  me  down  as  a  harmless  lunatic. 

172 


MYSTERY   AND   SUSPICION  173 

I  looked  up  at  the  dull  sky  with  satisfaction.  The 
clouds  were  not  heavy,  only  the  grey  Shetland-shawl 
sort  of  clouds  that  one  expects  at  the  end  of  the  year. 
"No  rain  to-day,"  I  thought;  "Sydney  will  come  all 
right."  I  wished  I  hadn't  got  that  long  scratch  down 
the  left  cheek;  it  made  me  look  such  an  object.  Then 
I  thought  of  Inversnaid  and  the  "drawbridge."  The 
very  thought  of  wriggling  my  poor,  battered  body  up 
that  long,  spiky  branch  was  positive  agony  to  me.  How 
in  the  world  was  I  to  do  it,  and  not  fill  the  very  welkin 
with  my  shrieks? 

I  dressed  at  my  leisure  that  day,  beguiling  the  weary 
hour,  by  way  of  a  change,  with  singing.  It  was  not 
often  I  did  this,  and  when  I  did,  I  always  did  it  out  of 
tune.  Whistling  was  more  in  my  line;  nobody  expects 
one  to  whistle  in  tune.  But  that  morning  somehow  I 
felt  full  of  song.  The  gardener  left  off  tickling  the 
path,  and  stared  up  with  open  mouth.  This  was  a  form 
of  lunacy  he  was  not  used  to.  But  what  did  it  matter? 
The  musical  ear  of  my  uncle's  gardener  is  not  over-crit- 
ical, as  Ollendorf  would  have  said.  So  I  went  on: 

"And  though  the  wild  fir  trees  were  creaking, 

And  ghosts  were  in  every  part, 
I  found  what  I  long  had  been  seeking, 
A  heart  I  could  take  to  my  heart." 

The  clang  of  the  chapel  bell  put  a  stop  at  last  to  my 
singing,  and  told  me  that  there  was  half  an  hour  still  to 
breakfast;  so  I  went  out  and  prowled  about  the  garden, 
and  found  nothing  particular  to  do,  and  wished  with  all 
my  heart  it  was  two  hours  later. 

"Well,  Joe,  what  are  your  plans  for  this  morning?" 
Uncle  Guy  enquired  at  breakfast,  with  a  broad,  cheery 
smile. 


174  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — poke  about,  I  suppose,"  I 
answered,  carelessly.  After  I  had  said  it,  it  suddenly 
dawned  upon  me  that  I  was  growing  into  an  appalling 
liar.  The  idea  horrified  me;  I  had  always  been  rather 
the  other  way,  and  hated  liars  as  I  hated  the  Evil  One. 

"May  I  come  and  poke  about,  too?"  Norman  asked. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  wishing  him  at  the  other  end  of 
the  world,  "if  it  won't  bore  you." 

It  was  really  too  maddening,  just  this  one  morning  of 
all  others,  when  I  so  particularly  wanted  to  be  left  free! 
I  could  have  thrown  something  at  him;  however,  I  knew 
that  several  pairs  of  eyes  were  watching  me;  so  I  did  my 
best  to  look  happy  (more  lying!  but  there  was  no  help 
for  it). 

So  Norman  and  I  went  and  rowed  about  on  the  lake, 
and  fished  for  pike,  and  caught  nothing  but  one  small 
but  gluttonous  perch.  And  I  was  rather  sulky,  I  am 
afraid,  and  snubbed  Norman,  and  made  rather  a  fool 
of  myself  generally. 

Then  we  came  home  to  luncheon,  and  Aunt  Harriet 
said  she  would  take  me  out  for  a  drive,  as  I  was  on  no 
account  to  be  allowed  to  ride  Maid  Marion  again.  She 
had  scolded  poor  Uncle  Guy  most  desperately  for  letting 
me  ride  her  at  all,  and  still  more  for  letting  Sophie  ride 
her  home. 

This  was  all  madly  annoying,  of  course,  but  still  I 
consoled  myself  with  the  thought  that  Sydney  would 
understand,  and  would  in  all  probability  come  to  Inver- 
snaid  next  day  on  the  chance.  But  when  the  next  day 
came,  and  exactly  the  same  thing  happened,  and  the 
next,  and  the  next  after  that,  it  became  pretty  clear  to 
me  that  I  was  not  meant  to  do  as  I  pleased.  It  was 
impossible  it  could  be  accident.  I  was  being  watched, 


MYSTERY   AND   SUSPICION  175 

guarded,  escorted,  sometimes  by  one  member  of  the 
family,  sometimes  by  another.  Even  Sophie  was  made 
use  of  to  watch  and  report  upon  my  movements — quite 
innocently  and  unconsciously,  of  course,  poor  thing!  but 
that  only  made  it  all  the  worse.  I  felt,  in  fact,  that  I 
was  a  prisoner,  never  allowed  to  move  without  a  warder 
at  my  side.  I  was  afraid  even  to  confide  in  Sophie — 
dear,  gentle  Sophie!  I  knew,  of  course,  that  she  was 
absolutely  devoted  to  me.  and  that  she  would  sooner  die 
than  do  anything  that  would  knowingly  injure  me,  but 
then  there  was  Father  Terence,  and  he  had  a  way  of 
worming  things  out  of  people  that  I  had  already  experi- 
enced, to  my  cost. 

So  I  kept  my  own  counsel,  and  grew  sullen  and  suspi- 
cious, and  as  a  consequence,  cunning  and  deceitful;  it 
was  really  dreadful,  but  what  was  I  to  do?  Every  one's 
hand  was  against  me,  even  down  to  the  servants. 

Griffiths  was  a  spy,  and  Frenetzi — as  far  as  his  oppor- 
tunities went — was  worse.  The  family  were,  of  course, 
friendly  and  polite  on  the  surface,  but  even  from  them 
the  mask  would  at  times  fall  off.  Not  that  I  mean  to 
imply  that  I  ever  caught  them  off  their  guard,  scowling 
demoniacal  glances  at  me;  but  they  were  different  from 
what  they  had  been ;  they  were  different  from  what  they 
were  when  I  came.  Uncle  Guy,  when  I  first  came,  had 
been  as  cheery  and  jolly  a  specimen  of  a  country  gentle- 
man as  one  may  meet  in  a  lifetime.  With  his  round, 
red  face,  clear  grey  eye,  and  short  aquiline  nose,  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  conceive  a  more  perfect  type 
of  the  jovial  squire  of  the  sporting  school.  Norman, 
for  his  part,  had  been  frivolous,  light-hearted,  and  irre- 
sponsible— what  the  books  call  debonnaire.  Both  of 
them  had  been  the  picture  of  health.  Now,  however, 


176  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

all  this  was  changed.  Uncle  Guy  looked  white,  haggard, 
and  pinched,  while  Norman  stalked  about  like  a  ghost, 
with  drooping  head  and  hands  in  pockets.  What  was 
the  meaning  of  it  all?  What  was  this  horrible  mystery, 
this  gloomy  spectre,  that  had  worked  so  astonishing  a 
change?  Why,  too,  was  I  watched  and  guarded  as 
though  I  were  a  felon? 

For  my  own  part,  I  connected  the  whole  thing  in  some 
way  with  Father  Terence.  Not  that  I  had  the  slightest 
ground  for  this,  beyond  the  fact  that  I  was  perpetually 
coming  upon  him  in  the  byways  and  passages  of  the 
house,  whispering  with  Norman  or  my  uncle.  There 
never  was  such  a  place  as  Selworth  for  tumbling  on  peo- 
ple unawares!  And  every  time,  whenever  I  did  find 
them,  it  always  seemed  to  be  Father  Terence  who  was 
laying  down  the  law,  and  the  others  who  were  listening. 
Of  course,  all  this  might  well  have  been  pure  imagination 
on  my  part,  for  I  never  overheard  a  word  they  were  say- 
ing, and  for  all  I  knew  to  the  contrary,  they  might  have 
been  talking  of  food  or  weather  or  the  chants  for  the 
following  Sunday.  But  Father  Terence  frightened  me; 
I  never  had  cared  for  him,  and  now  he  positively  fright- 
ened me.  I  used  to  catch  him  sometimes  staring  at  me 
with  the  oddest  look  you  ever  saw  in  a  man's  face — a 
look  in  which  horror  and  curiosity  seemed  struggling  for 
the  mastery.  What  did  the  man  mean  by  looking  at  me 
in  that  way?  I  felt  instinctively  that,  for  some  extraor- 
dinary, un-get-at-able  reason,  he  was  my  enemy.  He 
was  always  civil — far  too  civil,  in  fact — full  of  silly, 
idiotic  compliments  that  made  me  sick;  but  for  all  that, 
I  knew,  as  surely  as  a  pigeon  knows  a  hawk,  that  the 
whole  being  of  the  man  was  hostile  to  me,  and  danger- 
ous. 


MYSTERY   AND   SUSPICION  177 

And  I  began  to  get  very  frightened. 

The  thing  got  on  my  nerves,  and  kept  me  awake  at 
night — kept  me  awake  for  hours,  while  I  stared  into  the 
darkness  and  tried  to  find  some  clue  to  the  mystery. 
My  face — like  Norman's  and  Uncle  Guy's — began  to  get 
white  and  pinched,  and  I  noticed  a  scared,  strained  look 
in  the  eyes  that  faced  me  from  the  looking-glass.  The 
worst  of  it  all  was  there  was  no  single,  solitary  soul  in 
the  whole  place,  except  Sydney,  that  I  could  confide  in, 
and  ask  advice  from.  And  Sydney  was  out  of  reach — 
kept  out  of  reach,  I  knew,  by  intention. 

One  night,  about  a  week  after  the  Maid  Marion  busi- 
ness, I  lay  awake,  feeling  utterly  miserable,  and  wishing 
I  was  dead,  when  a  thought  flashed  across  my  brain  in 
the  sudden,  unaccountable  way  that  things  do  come 
across  one  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  I  thought 
of  old  Mrs.  Beddington,  and  of  the  words  she  had  twice 
used  at  parting,  "Come  to  me  if  you  are  ever  in  need  of 
a  friend."  Surely,  if  ever  I  was  in  need  of  a  friend,  it 
was  now!  I  would  go.  I  made  up  my  mind  on  the 
instant.  The  moment  it  was  daylight  I  would  slip  out 
of  the  glass  door,  and  take  her  at  her  word.  The 
thought  was  an  immense  comfort  to  me — the  thought  of 
doing  something,  instead  of  sitting  still  day  after  day 
among  all  these  mysteries  and  whisperings  and  white, 
gloomy  faces. 

The  moment  the  first  streak  of  grey  began  to  show 
through  my  blinds  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  began  to 
dress,  and  long  before  it  was  light  enough  to  read,  and 
long  before  the  housemaids  had  started  prowling  about 
the  passages,  I  had  slipped  out  of  the  little  turret  door, 
and  over  the  stone  balustrade,  into  the  shelter  of  the 
trees.  I  went  boldly  across  the  Plain;  I  knew  no  one 


178 

would  be  up  at  that  hour.  And  besides,  I  could  see 
that  every  blind  in  the  great  house  was  down ;  only  in 
some  of  the  little  dormer  windows  at  the  top  the  glow 
of  candles  told  me  that  the  housemaids  were  beginning 
to  stir. 

I  almost  ran  across  the  thick,  sopping  grass,  for  I 
knew  that  on  this  day  of  all  others  I  must  be  punctual 
for  breakfast.  The  deer  were  still  lying  down,  dotted 
about  like  huge  toad-stools,  but  they  got  up  and  shook 
themselves  as  I  came  near,  leaving  bright  green  marks 
in  the  white  wetness  of  the  grass.  They  stared  at  me 
haughtily  for  a  minute  or  two,  as  though  asking  what  I 
meant  by  disturbing  them  at  such  an  hour,  and  then 
trotted  lightly  away  with  head  and  tail  in  air. 

I  went  first  to  Inversnaid,  for  I  had  something  to  do 
there. 

I  climbed  up,  and  just  over  the  fireplace,  where  it 
would  be  shielded  from  the  rain,  I  pinned  a  bit  of  paper 
I  had  brought  with  me.  On  it  was  written : 

"Cannot  get  away  except  before  breakfast;  try  and  come  some 
morning  about  half  past  eight.  I  want  to  see  you  badly. — J." 

He  might  find  it,  or  he  might  not.  Anyhow,  no  one 
else  would  find  it,  for,  thank  Heaven,  no  living  soul, 
except  us  two,  knew  of  Inversnaid  and  all  its  hidden 
glories.  I  looked  round  at  all  the  old  nooks  and  corners 
with  a  feeling  of  such  immense  love  as  it  is  quite 
beyond  me  to  describe.  I  felt  that  this  old  tree  had 
remained  faithful  and  true  when  all  else  had  failed  me. 
Selworth  House,  from  being  the  dream  of  my  childhood, 
had  grown  to  be  a  nightmare;  the  park — the  glorious 
and  peerless  park — had  all  but  proved  my  death,  and  my 
lovely  panelled  room  had  turned  out  to  be  nothing  more 


MYSTERY   AND   SUSPICION  179 

or  less  than  a  treacherous  trap.  But  Inversnaid  was 
still  true  to  me ;  Inversnaid  was  on  my  side — my  only 
ally — against  all  the  forces  that  were  assailing  me,  a 
very  tower  of  strength  and  secrecy,  with  its  mighty 
limbs  and  unknown  hiding-places;  and  over  and  above 
all,  Inversnaid  it  was  that  had  brought  me  Sydney.  This 
was  enough  in  itself. 

I  would  have  loved  to  have  stayed  there,  and  lit  some 
sticks  in  the  charred,  blackened  fireplace,  but  I  remem- 
bered what  time  meant  to  me  that  morning.  So  I  slipped 
down  and  ran  across  the  valley  to  the  Manor  House. 
Henry  Beddington  was  just  leaving  for  the  Abbey  as  I 
came  to  the  door.  He  stared  at  me  open-mouthed. 

"Is  your  mother  up  yet?"  I  asked.  "I  want  particu- 
larly to  see  her." 

"Oh,  yes,  miss,"  he  said;  "she  be  up,  right  enough. 
I  reckon  you'll  find  her  in  the  kitchen." 

I  hammered  at  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Beddington  herself 
opened  it. 

"So  you've  come,"  she  said  instantly,  looking  me  full 
in  the  face  with  her  dark,  piercing  eyes. 

"Yes,  I've  come." 

"Well,  step  in,  child,  and  sit  down.  You  look  as 
white  as  a  ghost,  to  be  sure.  What  have  they  been 
doing  to  you?" 

"Oh,  nothing!"  I  said,  sinking  into  a  chair.  I  felt 
half-dead,  I  was  so  tired. 

"Nothing!  and  you  to  look  like  that!  Well,  well, 
sit  quiet  a  minute  while  I  make  you  a  cup  of  tea." 

"Then  you  won't  marry  Norman!  I  suppose  that's 
where  the  trouble  lies?"  she  added,  suddenly  and 
sharply,  as  she  bustled  about  with  the  kettle. 

"No,  I  can't  marry  Norman,"  I  said. 


i8o  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"And  why  not,  pray?    Isn't  he  good  enough  for  you?" 

She  spoke  so  sharply  that  I  looked  up  at  her  in  sur- 
prise, She  was  positively  scowling  at  me  from  under 
her  thick  eyebrows.  Was  this  the  friend,  I  thought, 
that  I  had  taken  such  trouble  to  come  and  see?  My 
heart  sank  with  a  feeling  of  utter  hopelessness.  Here, 
then,  was  another  one  against  me! 

"I  don't  care  for  him  enough  to  marry  him,"  I  said, 
weakly. 

"And  whom  do  you  care  for  well  enough  to  marry?" 

I  made  no  answer,  but  sat  and  stared  into  the  crack- 
ling fire. 

"Is  it  that  young  Sydney  Grayle?" 

"Yes;  I  would  marry  Mr.  Grayle." 

"Well,  well,  to  think  of  any  girl  preferring  a  beggarly 
young  fortune-hunter  like  that  to  a  man  like  Norman  de 
Metrier!" 

"Norman  isn't  fit  to  black  his  boots!"  I  cried,  rising 
to  my  feet,  "and  I  don't  think  I  want  your  tea,  thanks, 
Mrs.  Beddington;  I  must  be  getting  home." 

I  was  very  angry,  and  on  the  verge  of  tears.  It  was 
so  hard  to  find  this  old  woman  against  me  after  all. 

"So  that's  the  way  of  it,  is  it?"  she  said.  "Well, 
well,  I've  nothing  more  to  say,  then.  The  Lord's  will 
be  done." 

I  had  my  hand  already  on  the  door-latch,  but  at  her 
last  words  I  turned  round  and  faced  her  What  did  she 
mean  by  the  Lord's  will  being  done?  I  remembered  Father 
Terence  using  those  very  words  some  time  back  when  I 
had  overheard  him  talking  to  Uncle  Guy  in  the  great 
hall. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  said. 

"Come  here,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "and  sit  down,  and 


MYSTERY   AND    SUSPICION  181 

drink  your  tea.  You've  come  to  me,  as  I  told  you  to, 
because  you  want  a  friend?" 

"I  did  come  because  I  wanted  a  friend,  but  I'm  afraid 
I've  wasted  my  time,"  I  said,  bitterly. 

"Nonsense!"  she  said,  sharply;  "sit  down,  like  a 
sensible  girl.  I  am  your  friend,  and  a  good  one,  as 
you'll  find." 

"So  you  love  this  young  Grayle?"  she  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  I  said,  defiantly. 

"And  you  would  marry  him,  beggar  as  he  is,  and  beg- 
gar as  you  are?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  would,  and  I  wish  for  nothing  bet- 
ter." 

She  took  my  two  hands  in  hers,  and  stared  into  my 
face  as  though  she  would  read  my  very  soul. 

"Then,"  she  said,  "I  will  help  you,  though  it  prove 
my  death." 

"Prove  your  death!"  I  exclaimed.  "What  do  you 
mean?  Why  should  it  prove  any  one's  death?  Surely 
I  can  marry  any  one  I  choose." 

She  took  no  notice  of  my  questions. 

"I  would  have  given  everything  I  have  in  the  world 
for  you  to  have  married  Norman,"  she  said,  solemnly; 
"but  as  it  is,  I  bow  my  head  to  the  will  of  God.  It  is  a 
just  punishment  for  my  sins." 

"I  don't  know  the  least  what  you  mean,"  I  said.  "I 
came  to  you  because  I  am  in  terrible  need  of  a  friend, 
and  you  told  me  to  come  if  I  wanted  one.  I  thought 
you  might  advise  me." 

"And  so  I  will,  my  dear,  so  I  will,  and  more  than 
that.  There  are  very  few  things  I  would  not  do  for 
Guy  de  Metrier's  daughter." 


182  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Guy  de  Metrier's  daughter!     Do  you  mean  Sophie?" 

"No,  my  dear,  not  Sophie.  However,  never  mind 
that  now.  Tell  me  what  they  are  doing  to  you  up  at  the 
Abbey." 

"Oh!  what  are  they  not  doing?"  I  cried,  wringing  my 
hands  in  a  way  I  should  have  been  ashamed  of  two 
months  before.  "What  are  they  not  doing?  They  are 
watching  me,  and  spying  on  me,  and  guarding  me  as 
though  I  were  a  prisoner.  Even  the  servants  are  leagued 
against  me.  There  is  not  a  soul  in  the  place  I  can  trust. 
I  am  frightened,  Mrs.  Beddington  —  horribly  fright- 
ened!— what  of  I  don't  know.  I  couldn't  tell  you  to 
save  my  life — but  there  is  something,  I  am  sure  of 
that." 

"Poor  lamb!"  the  old  lady  said,  "is  it  as  bad  as  that? 
Well,  well,  they  are  bad  to  cross,  these  De  Metriers, 
and  always  have  been — gentlemen  all,  and  smooth  as 
milk  as  long  as  things  go  straight,  but  any  that  crosses 
them  must  bend  and  break  unless  they  are  the  stronger, 
as  I  myself  should  know  as  well  as  most,  God  help  me!" 

"What  is  it  all  about?"  I  said  piteously.  "What  have 
I  done  to  offend  them?  Is  it  about  Norman?" 

"There,  you  have  said  it,"  she  replied,  "and  in  three 
words;  it  is  about  Norman,  and  nothing  else.  If  you 
married  him  there  would  be  no  more  trouble  for  any 
of  us." 

"I  can't  do  it,"  I  cried,  "I  can't  really.  I  would 
sooner  die!" 

"Hush!  my  dear,"  she  said;  "don't  talk  like  that, 
for  Heaven's  sake!" 

She  raised  her  hands,  as  though  to  shut  out  some  evil 
sight,  and  shuffled  across  to  the  far  end  of  the  room. 
I  rose  to  my  feet. 


MYSTERY   AND   SUSPICION  183 

"I  must  be  going  now,"  I  said;  "it  is  getting  late, 
and  I  must  be  in  time  for  breakfast." 

I  was  miserably  disappointed.  She  had  told  me  noth- 
ing, advised  me  nothing;  and  she  was  my  one  last  hope 
of  friendship. 

"Must  you  really?"  she  said.  "Well,  well,  I  am  sorry; 
but  come  again,  my  dear,  come  again  soon,  for  I  want 
to  have  a  long  talk  with  you." 

"How  in  the  world  can  I  come  again  soon?"  I  cried, 
irritably.  "Haven't  I  told  you  that  I  am  watched  and 
spied  on  and  guarded  from  morning  till  night?  What 
nonsense  you  do  talk.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  get 
another  chance.  Ten  to  one  they  will  find  out  that  I 
have  been  here  this  morning,  and  there  will  be  a  fine 
to-do.  Uncle  Guy  has  expressly  forbidden  me  to  see 
you." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  thoughtfully;  "he  would  naturally 
do  that."  Then,  quite  suddenly,  she  cried  out:  "'In 
the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,'  and  I  may  as  well  do 
it  now.  Wait  here  one  minute,  my  dear,  and  I  will  give 
you  something  to  take  home." 

She  climbed  toilfully  up  the  little  wooden  staircase, 
and  I  stood  at  the  open  door,  with  curiosity  slightly 
aroused.  What  was  she  going  to  give  me? — a  talisman? — 
a  love-philtre? — or  what? 

She  was  barely  gone  a  minute,  and  came  down  with  a 
scarlet  leather  box  in  her  hand.  She  carried  it  by  a 
handle  attached  to  the  top,  and  from  the  handle,  on 
a  piece  of  white  tape,  hung  the  key. 

"Miss  Josephine,"  she  said,  very  seriously,  "take 
this  box,  and  guard  it  as  you  would  your  own  life.  Let 
no  one  see  it,  and  hide  it  where  no  single  soul  within  the 
four  walls  of  Selworth  will  be  able  to  find  it.  The 


184  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

moment  I  am  dead,  open  it,  and  read  what  is  inside. 
While  I  am  alive  you  are  on  no  account  to  open  it  till  I 
give  you  leave.  Do  you  promise  me  this  solemnly?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  feeling  rather  awed. 

"That  is  good.  You  are  to  be  trusted,  or  I  would 
not  give  it  you.  But  the  moment  you  hear  of  my  death, 
open  it — if  possible  in  company  with  Mr.  Grayle." 

"Why  do  you  talk  of  dying?"  I  asked.  "You  look 
quite  well;  is  anything  the  matter?" 

"  'In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,'  "  she  repeated, 
shaking  her  head.  "I  have  grievous  sins  that  must  be 
expiated  here  or  hereafter;  God  grant  it  may  be  here." 

I  took  the  box,  and  held  it  limply  in  my  hand,  waiting 
for  her  to  say  more.  I  was  far  too  impressed  myself  to 
speak.  The  old  woman  stood  shaking  her  head  and 
muttering  to  herself.  Then  suddenly  she  turned  to  me, 
and  seized  my  hand. 

"In  the  meanwhile,"  she  said,  "I  will  give  you  advice. 
Trust  no  one  at  Selworth,  least  of  all  the  priest.  What- 
ever he  advises  you  to  do,  do  the  opposite.  Be  secret 
and  watchful,  and  keep  your  own  counsel.  Write  no 
letters,  and,  above  all  things,  show  no  signs  of  distrust  — 
remember  that." 

I  nodded  silently. 

"There  is  one  thing  more,"  she  went  on,  "but  it  may 
be  difficult.  Get  Lady  Harriet,  if  possible,  to  change 
your  room." 

"Why?"  I  said.     "Do  you  mean  the  picture?" 

I  have  never  seen  anyone  look  so  astonished.  It 
almost  made  me  laugh,  miserable  as  I  was. 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  picture?"  she  asked, 
sharply. 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  I  said,  with  some  triumph, 


MYSTERY   AND   SUSPICION  185 

"and  especially  this,  that  nobody  will  open  it  from  the 
staircase  side  again  in  a  hurry." 

"They  have  tried,  then?"  she  asked  in  a  horrified 
whisper. 

"Never  you  mind,"  I  said,  laughing;  "it's  all  right 
now,  anyhow.  And  now  I  must  really  be  off.  Good- 
bye, Mrs.  Beddington,  and  a  thousand  thanks." 

"Mind  the  box  well,"  she  said,  shaking  a  finger  at 
me,  "and  let  no  one  see  it  on  any  account,  except  Mr. 
Grayle.  And  since  you're  set  on  him — young  Grayle,  I 
mean — I'll  give  you  both  an  old  woman's  blessing,  and 
that  with  all  my  heart.  He's  a  fine  young  fellow,  and 
worth  a  dozen  ramshackle  De  Metriers  when  all's  said 
and  done.  God  bless  you  both!" 

She  turned  into  the  house,  and  I  went  dancing  off 
down  the  track. 

It  was  wonderful  how  my  spirits  had  risen  during  the 
last  ten  minutes.  I  think  it  was  the  box  or  perhaps  the 
tea,  or  the  discovery  that  there  was  one  person  at  any 
rate  in  the  world  who  would  turn  a  smiling  eye  upon  my 
marriage  with  Sydney  Grayle.  Anyhow,  whatever  it 
was,  the  result  was  astonishing.  I  had  not  been  in  such 
spirits  for  days,  almost  weeks.  A  pale  sun  was  up  now, 
slanting  through  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  opposite, 
and  flecking  the  bracken  with  streaks  and  stars  of  light. 
I  had  just  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  get  home,  and  I 
knew  it  was  none  too  much. 

I  was  just  rounding  the  bend  in  the  track  that  shows 
one  the  bottom  of  the  broader  valley  below,  with  the 
green  ride  running  up  its  centre,  when  my  heart  gave  one 
immense  bound,  and  then  stood  stock  still.  I  darted 
like  a  rabbit  behind  the  roots  of  a  big  fir-tree  that  had 
been  blown  down,  and  flung  myself  full  length  on  the 


186  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

wet,  stony  earth  on  which  it  had  once  stood.  And  there 
I  lay,  hardly  daring  so  much  as  to  breathe;  for  what  I 
had  caught  sight  of  in  that  one  wild  moment  was  noth- 
ing less  than  Uncle  Guy  himself  riding  slowly  up  the 
track  towards  the  Manor  House.  He  had  not  seen  me 
yet;  I  was  sure  of  that;  and  the  upturned  root,  though 
only  three  yards  from  the  track,  shielded  me  well  enough 
so  long  as  nothing  prompted  him  to  look  back  when  he 
had  once  passed.  If  he  did  that,  I  was  lost — absolutely 
and  irretrievably  lost — for  on  that  side  there  was  no 
shelter  at  all.  Oh,  those  awful  moments!  Did  ever 
mortal  man  ride  so  slow  before?  I  heard  the  slow,  regu- 
lar beat  of  the  horse's  hoofs  drawing  nearer  and  nearer 
as  they  climbed  the  hill.  I  heard  the  old  horse  softly 
blowing  his  nose,  and  the  smack  of  Uncle  Guy's  cane 
against  his  gaiters.  Would  they  never  pass? 

Uncle  Guy  gave  a  loud  sneeze,  and  it  sounded  so 
appallingly  close  that  I  almost  jumped  out  of  my  skin. 
A  horrible  dread  came  over  me  that  from  the  top  of  his 
horse  he  might  be  able  to  see  my  feet  sticking  out  behind 
the  root.  However,  movement  of  any  sort  would  be 
absolutely  fatal,  so  I  lay  still,  and  trusted  vaguely  to 
Providence.  Next  moment  horse  and  rider  burst  out 
into  full  view.  He  was  kicking  his  heels  loosely,  and 
smacking  his  leg  with  his  cane,  and  his  head  turned 
quickly  from  side  to  side  as  though  taking  stock  of  his 
property.  Once  he  rested  his  hand  on  the  horse's  quar- 
ters, and  turned  squarely  round  to  the  right,  looking 
straight  over  my  head  towards  the  Abbey.  An  insane 
inclination  came  into  my  head  to  kick  both  my  legs 
straight  up  into  the  air,  and  give  a  wild  view-halloa;  it 
would  have  made  him  jump  so.  However,  thank 


MYSTERY   AND   SUSPICION  187 

Heaven!  I  resisted  it.  The  next  moment  his  head 
turned  to  the  front  again,  and  I  was  safe. 

He  rode  round  into  the  yard,  whistling  and  calling 
for  some  one  to  take  his  horse,  and  I  picked  myself  up, 
and  scurried  madly  down  the  track. 

I  had  to  go  a  long  round  home  to  keep  out  of  sight  of 
the  bedroom  windows — along  the  edge  of  Flexham 
Wood,  then  down  under  the  dip  in  which  the  Home 
Farm  lay,  through  the  straggling  oak-trees  between  the 
house  and  the  lake,  and  then  for  two  or  three  hundred 
yards  across  the  open,  till  I  reached  the  shelter  of  the 
trees  outside  the  garden  balustrade.  After  that  it  was 
all  plain  sailing. 

I  got  in  five  minutes  before  the  bell  rang,  and  hid  my 
box  in  the  drawer  at  the  bottom  of  my  wardrobe,  and 
spent  the  rest  of  the  time  in  washing  my  face  in  cold 
water,  and  brushing  my  clothes  and  my  hair,  and  gen- 
erally making  myself  look  as  though  I  had  not  been  out 
of  the  house  for  weeks. 

Uncle  Guy  was  down  as  soon  as  I  was;  he  looked  very 
much  as  though  he  had  been  out  of  the  house — hot  and 
pale  and  dishevelled,  and  very  cross.  He  clattered  the 
dishes  about  in  an  awful  fashion,  and  broke  two  plates, 
and  swore  a  good  deal  under  his  breath.  No  one  dared 
speak  to  him.  I  wondered  what  Mrs.  Beddington  had 
been  saying  to  him. 

No  one  asked  me  any  questions,  and  I  took  it  for 
granted  that  my  walk  would  pass  down  as  one  of  the 
unrecorded  incidents  of  history;  but  before  twenty-four 
hours  had  passed  I  had  reason  to  change  my  mind.  And 
for  this  reason. 

I  got  up  early  next  morning  to  go  to  Inversnaid;  I 


i88  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

thought  it  just  possible  that  Sydney  might  have  found 
my  paper.  Anyhow,  it  was  worth  going  on  the  off 
chance.  But  to  my  utter  amazement,  when  I  got  to  the 
glass  door,  I  found  it  locked,  and  the  key  nowhere  to  be 
seen. 

"Officious  housemaids,"  I  thought.  "However,  it 
doesn't  much  matter,  luckily."  I  passed  on  to  the  door 
into  the  garden  by  Aunt  Harriet's  room,  but  here  again 
I  found  the  same  thing — door  locked,  key  gone!  This 
time  I  did  not  say  "officious  housemaids."  I  said  noth- 
ing, but  I  thought  a  good  deal,  like  the  parrot.  I  have 
never  seen  a  house  where  there  are  so  many  outlets  as 
there  are  at  Selworth.  I  tried  them  all,  including  the 
front  door.  They  were  all  the  same — locked  and  barred. 
There  were,  of  course,  windows  out  of  which  I  could 
have  climbed,  but  it  was  not  worth  while.  In  the  first 
place,  I  should  probably  have  been  seen  by  a  housemaid, 
and  in  the  second  place  the  locked  doors  told  a  story 
with  a  very  plain  moral — so  plain  a  moral,  in  fact,  that 
I  went  straight  back  to  my  room,  and  threw  myself 
sulkily  on  the  sofa  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

I  had  lain  for  twenty  minutes  brooding  rather  miser- 
ably, when  a  sudden,  startling  thought  flashed  across 
me.  My  box!  My  precious  red  box!  What  an  idiot  I 
was!  I  had  clean  forgotten  all  about  it. 

I  flew  to  the  drawer  where  I  had  hidden  it,  full  of 
terror  and  self-reproaches.  What  if  it  were  gone?  What 
if  old  Griffiths  had  found  it,  and  studied  its  contents? 

It  was  hidden  under  one  of  the  poor  old  sadly  despised 
Chelmsford  frocks  that  I  had  worn  when  I  came.  That 
was  why  I  had  put  it  there,  because  I  knew  full  well  that 
Griffiths  would  have  died  sooner  than  soil  her  fingers  with 
such  trash.  I  had,  however,  in  a  sudden  impulse  of 


MYSTERY   AND   SUSPICION  189 

extraordinary  caution,  arranged  the  key  and  the  string 
that  it  hung  from  in  a  particular  pattern,  so  that  I  should 
know  in  a  moment  if  any  one  had  tampered  with  it. 

It  was  all  right.  I  need  not  have  worried  myself. 
I  ought  to  have  known  that  I  might  have  left  the  thing 
there  for  a  year  in  perfect  safety.  The  key  and  the 
string  and  the  pattern  were  just  as  I  had  left  them,  and 
with  a  sigh  of  immense  relief,  I  took  the  box  and  sat 
down  to  consider. 

I  had  long  ago  made  up  my  mind  where  I  would  hide 
it;  the  only  question  was  whether  the  moment  was  not 
a  little  dangerous.  However,  something  must  be  risked, 
I  thought.  Over-caution  is  as  bad  as  none;  and  after 
all,  the  risk  was  not  much  greater  than  that  of  leaving 
the  box  where  it  might  be  found. 

I  made  up  my  mind  to  chance  it. 

I  locked  the  door,  and  lit  a  candle,  and  put  the  can- 
dle and  the  box  in  the  middle  of  the  chimney-piece. 
Then  I  took  off  my  shoes,  and  getting  a  chair,  climbed 
on  to  the  left  end  of  the  chimney-piece,  and  ran  my 
fingers  up  the  left  side  of  the  frame  till  I  came  to  the 
tenth  knob  from  the  bottom.  I  knew  exactly  where  to 
look  for  it  by  now.  I  pressed  the  spring,  and  with  one 
last  supercilious  smile  at  me,  Maurice  swung  back  out  of 
sight. 

Now  came  the  nervous  part.  For  all  I  knew  the  stair- 
case might  act  as  a  kind  of  speaking-tube  into  Nor- 
man's room.  I  knew,  of  course,  that  he  was  there — 
probably  still  in  bed.  Fancy  if  he  pounced  upon  me, 
box  in  hand ! 

I  took  the  box  in  one  hand  and  the  candle  in  the 
other,  and  crept  softly  up.  Half-way  to  the  top  there 
was  a  kind  of  deep  niche  in  the  wall — a  kind  of  place 


190  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  meant  for  one  of  those  nar- 
row slits  of  windows  one  sees  in  old  castles.  It  was  an 
irregular  wedge  in  shape,  and  ended  in  a  sort  of  point. 
So  far  this  was  of  no  great  use  for  my  purpose,  but  just 
short  of  the  end,  and  about  four  feet  from  the  staircase, 
there  was  a  deep  hole  as  though  some  big  stone  had 
fallen  from  its  place.  This  was  the  place  I  had  my  eye 
on.  I  crawled  on  my  knees  along  the  dust-covered 
stones,  and  stretching  out  my  left  arm,  pushed  the  box 
as  far  as  it  would  go  into  the  hole.  It  was  magnificent! 
My  hand  followed  the  box  as  far  as  the  wrist,  leaving  it 
absolutely  invisible  to  any  evil-minded  person  prowling 
up  and  down  the  stairs.  Nothing,  in  short,  could  have 
been  better.  The  place  seemed  positively  to  have  been 
made  for  my  purpose. 

I  crept  down  again,  closed  Maurice  with  great  cau- 
tion, and  brushed  my  knees,  and  put  on  my  boots,  with 
the  satisfactory  feeling  of  having  done  a  good  morning's 
work  in  spite  of  all  the  machinations  of  evilly  disposed 
people. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

MORE   MYSTERY 

'T^HAT  week  Uncle  Guy  went  to  London,  and  stayed 
-*•  there  till  Saturday  night.  Sophie  said  he  had  gone 
to  see  his  lawyers  about  money  matters.  I  don't  know 
how  she  knew,  but  she  was  generally  right.  She  told  me 
she  thought  he  was  very  hard  up  for  money,  as  he  had 
given  orders  to  have  all  his  race-horses  sold  at  New- 
market, which  was  really  an  extraordinary  thing  to  do, 
as  the  De  Metriers  had  owned  race-horses  for  over  half 
a  century. 

"That's  what  has  been  making  him  look  so  worried 
and  ill  lately,  I  expect,"  she  said;  "he  was  immensely 
proud  of  his  horses." 

To  me  all  this  was  a  revelation,  and  a  cause  of  much 
wonder.  I  had  always  looked  upon  my  uncle  as  a  man 
into  whose  pocket  money  poured  in  such  boundless  quan- 
tities that  he  found  it  difficult  to  know  what  to  do  with 
it  all.  The  horses,  the  carriages,  the  servants  in  their 
powder  and  their  liveries,  the  masses  of  gold  and  silver 
plate,  everything,  in  fact,  about  the  place  gave  one  the 
idea  of  unlimited  money.  And  that  the  owner  of  all  this 
should  actually  have  to  sell  his  horses  and  borrow 
money — as  Sophie  said  he  was  doing — seemed  a  thing 
almost  beyond  the  bounds  of  possibility. 

Of  course,  if  this  was  true,  it  accounted  for  a  great 
deal  that  had  puzzled  me  before.  It  accounted  for  the 

191 


192  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

whisperings  and  the  consultations,  and  the  pale,  harassed 
faces,  and  for  a  great  deal  of  the  mystery  that  had 
seemed  to  hang  about  the  place  lately.  But  it  accounted 
in  no  way  that  I  could  see  for  my  being  locked  into  the 
house,  and  sent  out  every  day  under  escort.  Unless  it 
was  that  Sydney,  as  the  Duke's  agent,  knew  all  about 
Uncle  Guy's  money  difficulties,  and  they  were  afraid  he 
would  tell  me.  That  might  possibly  be  it.  I  wondered. 

Sophie  and  I  talked  over  all  these  things  by  the  hour. 
We  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  been  speculating, 
or  betting  on  horse-races,  and  had  lost  more  money  than 
he  could  pay. 

One  day  Sophie  and  I  were  walking  about  down  by 
the  lake  when  we  met  a  long  string  of  horses — ten  or 
twelve  of  them — in  hoods  and  rugs  and  knee-caps,  going 
in  the  direction  of  the  Greystoke  Lodge.  We  ran  up  in 
great  excitement,  and  Sophie  asked  one  of  the  grooms 
where  they  were  going. 

"Going  to  Lunnon,  miss,"  he  said,  touching  his  cap. 

"London!'  she  said.     "Why,  what  for?" 

"Don't  know,  miss,  I'm  sure — Mr.  Clarke's  orders." 

We  thought  this  the  most  extraordinary  thing  of  all, 
but  there  was  more  to  come.  Next  day  there  were  three 
huge  vans  in  the  yard  outside  the  back  door,  and  Mercer 
and  Gedge,  and  half  a  dozen  men,  were  hoisting  in  any 
number  of  great  wooden  cases. 

"What's  all  this,  Mercer?"  Sophie  asked.  She  was 
just  as  inquisitive  about  it  all  as  I  was. 

"Some  things  we  are  sending  up  to  London,  miss," 
he  answered.  "Plate  mostly,  and  china,  and  one  or  two 
pictures  and  pieces  of  furniture." 

"But  why  on  earth  are  they  going  to  London?"  she 
asked. 


MORE    MYSTERY  193 

"Well,  I  fancy,  from  what  I  hear,  the  family  will  be 
going  up  to  town  next  week,  and  I  suppose  these  things 
will  be  wanted  there — dinner-parties  and  receptions,  per- 
haps. " 

"Oh,  what  fun!"  cried  Sophie;  "I  do  hope  we  are! 
But  why  have  we  heard  nothing  about  it?" 

"Can't  say,  I'm  sure,  miss.  Likely  as  not  the 
Squire's  only  settled  it  lately." 

My  uncle  was  always  "the  Squire"  with  the  servants. 
It  was  a  fancy  of  his.  Mordaunt  had  been  "the  Squire" 
before  him,  and  Maurice  again  before  that,  and  possibly 
Roger  before  Maurice.  It  always  sounded  funny  to  me, 
for  he  was  not  my  idea  of  a  squire  somehow.  He  seemed 
too  big  a  swell  to  fit  the  name. 

Sophie  and  I  went  in,  and  made  all  sorts  of  discoveries 
about  the  house.  Four  of  the  best  pictures  in  the  long 
gallery  were  gone,  and  the  Vandyck  in  the  passage  out- 
side Aunt  Harriet's  room,  and  almost  every  picture  out 
of  the  drawing-room.  The  drawing-room,  in  fact,  was 
swept  bare.  There  were  three  large  cabinets  that  had 
been  full  of  Sevres  china — quite  priceless,  I  believe; 
these  were  empty  now.  And  three  marble  statues  that 
stood  between  the  windows  were  gone,  too.  We  had 
not  been  using  the  drawing-room  since  the  last  shooting 
party,  so  we  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  had  been 
going  on.  We  were  speechless  with  amazement.  How 
had  they  managed  to  do  it  so  quietly  and  without  any 
noise? — and  why?  In  the  name  of  all  that  was  reason- 
able, why? 

"Is  the  London  house  very  empty?"  I  asked  Sophie. 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  is.  I  have  never  thought  much 
about  it,  but  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  much  the  same 
as  this.  The  pictures,  I  believe,  are  better." 


i94  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Then,  why  take  all  these  things  up?" 

"Goodness  knows!" 

"Perhaps  he's  going  to  sell  them,"  I  whispered,  "like 
the  horses." 

"Oh,  not  likely,"  she  said;  "in  the  first  place,  he  is 
not  allowed  to  by  law  without  Norman's  consent;  and, 
besides,  it's  ridiculous,  of  course,  to  suppose  that  he's  as 
hard  up  as  all  that.  He  can  always  raise  any  amount  on 
mortgage." 

At  luncheon  we  propounded  the  question  to  Aunt 
Harriet — at  least  Sophie  did — I  don't  think  I  should  have 
had  the  courage. 

"I  really  don't  know,  child,"  she  answered,  plain- 
tively. "Your  father  does  not  think  it  necessary  to 
consult  me  every  time  he  moves  a  picture  or  a  plate. 
Ce  ne  vaut  pas  la  print." 

"No,  but  he  is  sending  up  such  huge  quantities  of 
things.  The  poor  old  drawing-room  looks  like  a  barn." 

"I  fancy,  Sophie,"  Father  Terence  put  in  sonorously, 
"that  your  father  contemplates  some  changes.  Some  of 
the  London  things  are  coming  here,  and  some  from  here 
going  to  London.  The  idea  is,  I  should  say,  to  get 
things  more  suitably  grouped  than  they  are  at  present. 
But  really  I  know  very  little  about  the  matter." 

"And  are  the  horses  going  to  be  more  suitably 
grouped,  too?" 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Aunt  Harriet,  "don't  ask  such 
very  foolish  questions.  Je  ne  nfoccupe  pas  des  tcuries. 
Why  don't  you  ask  Clarke?" 

Poor  Sophie  collapsed.  I  never  knew  any  one  so 
easily  put  down.  From  the  end  of  the  table  Norman 
looked  up,  and  said,  carelessly: 

"I  expect  the  Squire  will  sell  some  of  the  horses,  and 


MORE  MYSTERY  195 

a  good  thing,  too.  They're  more  or  less  of  a  three- 
cornered  lot,  what  with  one  thing  and  another. " 

"Not  Norah,  I  hope?"  said  Sophie. 

"Oh,  no,  not  Norah,  of  course,  but  some  of  the  other 
old  crocks;  and  Maid  Marion,  of  course,  he'll  sell — 
nobody  would  care  to  ride  her  again  after  her  bolting 
with  Joe." 

It  occurred  to  me  casually  that  Maid  Marion  had  been 
given  me  for  my  own,  and  that  if  any  one  had  the  right 
to  sell  her  it  would  be  myself,  but  naturally  I  kept  these 
thoughts  to  myself. 

"Is  is  true  we  are  going  to  London  next  week?"  I 
asked,  rather  nervously,  looking  at  Aunt  Harriet. 

"I  really  don't  know,  my  dear;  there  was  some  talk 
of  it,  but  it  depends  a  good  deal  on  your  uncle's  arrange- 
ments. If  he  can  get  through  his  business  by  Saturday 
we  shall  probably  stay  here.  I  can  tell  you  nothing  defi- 
nite till  he  comes  back." 

"I  hope  to  goodness  we  do  go  up!"  said  Sophie,  with 
emphasis.  "What  fun  it  will  be!  Won't  it,  Joe?" 

"Won't  it?"  I  echoed,  with  as  much  spirit  as  I  could 
summon  up.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  not  sure  that  it 
would  be  fun  at  all — for  me. 

Uncle  Guy  came  back  late  on  Saturday  night.  We 
had  all  gone  to  bed — Sophie,  that  is,  and  Aunt  Harriet, 
and  myself — but  I  could  hear  his  loud,  cheery  voice 
talking  and  laughing  downstairs,  and  I  jumped  to  the 
conclusion  that  his  business,  as  far  as  it  had  gone,  was 
satisfactory.  I  hoped  it  would  cheer  things  up  a  bit  at 
Selworth.  There  was  need  of  it. 

The  next  day,  Sunday,  Norman  proposed  to  me 
again.  He  positively  frightened  me,  he  was  so  wild  and 
odd.  He  rolled  on  the  floor,  and  grovelled,  and  seized 


196  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

my  hand,  and  kissed  it,  and  slobbered  over  it,  till  I 
honestly  thought  the  boy  must  be  mad.  To  tell  the 
truth,  it  had  entered  into  my  head  more  than  once  that 
both  Norman  and  Uncle  Guy  were  a  little  mad;  they 
were  so  strange  at  times,  and  unexpected,  and  unac- 
countable. They  both,  too,  had  an  odd  look  in  the  eye 
at  times — a  kind  of  excited  glitter.  As  to  Norman,  on 
this  particular  day  he  was  beyond  anything. 

"For  God's  sake,  Joe!"  he  cried,  gripping  my  hand 
till  he  hurt  me;  "for  all  our  sakes,  for  your  own  sake, 
don't  say  no!" 

"But,  Norman,"  I  said,  "how  can"  you  talk  like  that? 
You  know  I  am  engaged  to  Mr.  Grayle. " 

"Would  you  marry  me  if  it  was  not  for  him?"  he 
asked. 

"How  can  I  tell?  How  can  any  one  tell  what  they 
would  do  if  everything  was  different?" 

"No;  but  what  I  mean  is,  if  you  had  never  seen  him, 
do  you  like  me  well  enough  to  marry  me?" 

"What  is  the  use  of  asking  riddles?"  I  said.  "I  really 
don't  know.  I  have  seen  him,  and  that  settles  it." 

We  were  in  the  morning-room,  and  every  moment  I 
expected  some  one  would  come  in,  and  find  him  on  the 
floor.  We  should  have  looked  such  awful  fools.  I 
wished  he  would  get  up. 

"Joe!"  he  whispered,  glancing  nervously  round  the 
room  over  his  shoulder,  "if  you  knew  that  by  marrying 
me  you  would  avert  some  great  family  misfortune — a  ter- 
rible danger  that  threatens  all  of  us,  including  yourself — 
yourself  more  than  any,  in  fact — wouldn't  you  do  this 
for  the  sake  of  all  we  have  done  for  you?  Joe,  darling 
little  Joe,  for  God's  sake,  think  it  all  over!  Is  it  such  a 
very  dreadful  thing  that  I  am  asking  you  to  do?  Do 


MORE  MYSTERY  197 

you  hate  me  so  much  that  you  cannot  even  marry  me  to 
save  the  whole  family  from — from  a  horrible,  hideous 
curse?  O  my  God!  My  God!  if  you  only  knew!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  walked  wildly  up  and  down 
the  room,  his  brows  knit,  his  hands  clenched  tightly 
behind  his  back. 

"What  is  this  terrible  thing  that  I  could  avert?"  I 
asked.  "You  are  all  so  dreadfully  mysterious." 

I  felt  quite  ashamed  of  myself  for  being  so  calm;  it 
seemed  so  unfeeling. 

"Don't  ask  me  what  it  is,  Joe,  for  I  can't  possibly 
tell  you;  but  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  that  there  is 
such  a  thing,  and  that  it  is  very  real  and  very  dreadful — 
far  more  dreadful  than  you  can  ever  dream  of.  And  you 
can  save  us  all — Sophie  and  my  mother  and  all — if  you 
will  only  marry  me.  I  would  be  so  good  to  you,  Joe." 

Why  was  I  not  more  moved  by  his  pleading,  agonised 
face?  The  plain  passion  in  his  eyes  ought  to  have  melted 
a  stone;  but  I  remained  icily  calm  and  indifferent.  I 
can't  say  why.  I  don't  think,  for  one  thing,  I  quite 
believed  what  he  was  telling  me.  All  the  time  he  was 
talking,  Mrs.  Beddington's  warning  words  kept  running 
in  my  head,  "Trust  no  one  at  Selworth;  keep  your  own 
counsel,  and  be  watchful  and  secret."  What  right  had 
they  and  their  mystery  to  come  between  me  and  my 
love?  The  thing  was  a  plot  from  the  beginning — a 
mean  plot  of  the  whole  family  to  get  me  to  marry  Nor- 
man just  to  suit  their  own  convenience.  I  had  felt  hon- 
estly sorry  for  Norman  before,  because  I  thought  he 
really  did  care  for  me;  but  now  I  saw  the  whole  thing 
was  just  put  on  in  order  to  help  their  nasty,  underhand 
plans.  Another  thought,  too,  flashed  across  my  mind, 
and  helped  to  keep  me  calm — the  thought  of  that  ghastly 


198  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

night  when  soft  footsteps  had  creaked  about  my  room  in 
the  marrow-curdling  darkness.  I  tightened  my  lips  and 
steeled  my  heart. 

"So  all  your  love-making  and  pretence  of  affection 
has  just  been  a  sham?"  I  said.  "You  just  wanted  to 
marry  me  for  business  reasons?" 

"Before  God,  Joe,"  he  said,  kneeling  down  beside  my 
chair,  "there  was  no  sham  about  it.  I  love  you  as  I 
never  thought  I  could  love  any  one  in  the  world.  I  am 
a  selfish,  easy-going  sort  of  chap,  as  you  know,  and  it 
never  entered  into  my  head  that  I  could  fall  very  much 
in  love  with  any  one.  But  you — you  simply  knocked  me 
head  over  heels  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you.  Look 
at  me,  Joe — look  at  me!  Can  you  look  at  me  and  not 
see  that  I  am  almost  out  of  my  mind  for  love  of  you?" 

"I  see  that  you  are  very  much  excited  about  this  ter- 
rible disaster  which  will  overtake  you  if  I  don't  marry 
you,"  I  said,  slowly. 

"No,  no,  no!"  he  cried,  "it  is  not  that,  Joe — before 
God,  it  is  not  that!  I  only  said  that  because  I  thought 
it  might — help!" 

"Help  what?" 

"Help  to  persuade  you  to  marry  me.  But  it  is  you 
that  I  want,  Joe — you  and  only  you,  my  sweet,  beauti- 
ful darling!  It  is  the  others  that  are  thinking  so  much 
about  the — expediency  of  the  thing." 

"What  others?" 

"Oh,  all  the  others,"  he  said,  vaguely. 

I  could  see  that  he  already  regretted  what  he  had  said. 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  I  said.  "Five  minutes 
ago  you  asked  me  to  marry  you  to  avert  some  mysterious 
curse;  now  you  ask  me  to  marry  you  because  you  love 
me?  Which  do  you  mean?  You  contradict  yourself  so. " 


MORE  MYSTERY  199 

"No,  I  don't,  Joe;  can't  you  understand?  There  is 
this  mysterious  curse,  as  you  call  it,  and  if  you  married 
me  you  would  put  an  absolute  end  to  it,  and  it  was  in 
reality  for  this  that  you  were  asked  here;  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  sacrifice  myself  and  marry  this  dowdy  little 
Chelmsford  cousin  that  no  one  had  ever  seen,  for  the 
sake  of  the  family.  But  before  you  had  been  here  a 
week  I  knew  that  this  dowdy  little  Chelmsford  cousin 
was  the  one  and  only  girl  in  the  whole  world  that  I  could 
ever  care  to  marry — absolutely  the  only  one.  So  there 
you  have  the  whole  history  of  it  in  a  nutshell.  And  now 
what  do  you  say,  Joe?" 

"Nothing  that  I  have  not  said  before,"  I  answered, 
rather  miserably.  "I  am  dreadfully  sorry  about  it  all, 
Norman,  but  no  one  can  force  their  own  heart,  and — 
there's  nothing  to  be  said  that  I  can  see." 

"You  won't  marry  me?  Not  even  now  that  you  know 
all?" 

"No,  Norman;  I  really  can't." 

He  stood  still,  looking  at  me  with  such  a  miserable 
face  that  I  felt  like  a  murderess.  I  felt,  too,  that  it 
was  dreadfully  mean  and  selfish  and  ungrateful  of  me 
not  to  do  what  they  all  wanted  so  badly.  I  hated  myself 
for  it,  but  there  it  was — there  was  no  help  for  it. 

Norman  came  quite  close  to  me,  and  said:  "Very 
well,  Joe,  I  will  accept  that  as  final,  and  I  will  not 
bother  you  any  more;  but  there  is  one  thing  more  I  must 
say  to  you  now;  I  know  it  will  make  no  difference  to 
your  decision,  but  all  the  same  I  must  say  it." 

"Well?"  I  said. 

"You  are  in  danger,  Joe — in  awful  danger!  Get 
Sydney  Grayle  to  take  you  away  from  here  at  once — 
instantly — this  very  day,  if  you  can.  Run  away  across 


200  THE   PERILS    OF    JOSEPHINE 

the  park  to  his  house,  and  tell  him  to  keep  you  there, 
and  hide  you  and  lock  you  up." 

He  nodded  at  me  fiercely. 

"My  dear  Norman,"  I  said,  laughing,  "you  must  be 
mad.  How  on  earth  can  I  do  a  thing  of  that  sort?" 

"Never  mind  how  you  can  do  it,  but  do  it.  What  do 
custom  and  convention  and  propriety  matter  in  a  case  of 
life  and  death?  I  tell  you,  you  are  in  mortal  danger 
here." 

"Who  is  this  talking  about  danger?"  said  a  loud, 
musical  voice  at  the  door.  "Faith!  there's  danger 
enough  for  all  poor  men  with  your  bright  eyes  going 
about  the  house,  Miss  Joe.  What  has  Norman  been  say- 
ing to  you?  Making  love,  the  rascal,  I'll  be  bound,  and 
small  blame  to  him,  either!" 

We  were  both  silent.  Norman  seemed  to  shrink  into 
nothing,  and  with  a  white  face  and  trembling  hands,  took 
up  a  book.  I  was  too  horrified  by  his  last  words  to 
make  any  pretence  of  seeming  otherwise  than  in  the 
depths  of  gloom.  Father  Terence  seemed  to  notice 
nothing. 

"I  came  to  look  for  that  copy  of  'Giraldus  Cam- 
brensis, '  "  he  said,  "lying  thief  of  the  world  that  he 
was!  I  hope  you've  not  been  studying  him,  Miss  Joe." 

"No,  I've  not  seen  it,"  I  answered,  quite  seriously. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  hardly  heard  his  question. 

"No,  indeed,  I  suppose  not,"  he  said,  with  a  fat  laugh. 
"Why  would  you?  Love  sonnets  are  more  in  your  line, 
just  as  musty  old  Latin  tomes,  written  by  court  liars,  are 
in  mine." 

"I  hate  love  sonnets!"  I  said,  rather  crossly;  "silly, 
mawkish  things!" 

"Ah,  well!"  he  said,  "the  mere  reflection  may  well 


MORE  MYSTERY  201 

seem  silly  in  presence  of  the  reality.  We  only  cherish 
portraits  when  the  original  is  absent.  Well,  well,  that 
villain  Giraldus  must  be  in  the  library,  and  poor,  fat 
Terence  Boyle  must  go  puffing  and  blowing  after  him. 
Gad!  these  passages  grow  longer  every  year.  They'll 
be  the  death  of  me  some  day.  Norman,  me  dear  boy, 
be  a  good  Christian,  and  give  an  old  man  an  arm  as  far 
as  the  library.  Miss  Joe'll  give  you  leave  of  absence 
for  five  minutes,  I  make  no  doubt." 

Norman  went  up  without  a  word  and  offered  his  arm; 
he  looked  exactly  as  if  he  was  going  to  be  hung.  They 
passed  out  together,  Father  Terence  doing  all  the  talk- 
ing, and  I  was  left  alone  with  my  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XX 

FLICKERS   ON   THE   RAFTERS 

T  T  turned  out  that  I  was  not  to  go  to  London  with 
•*•  them,  after  all. 

"You  see,  my  dear,"  Aunt  Harriet  explained,  "you 
have  no  suitable  dresses,  and,  I  think,  altogether  you 
would  be  rather  miserable.  And  we  shall  be  very  quiet — 
no  balls,  no  entertainments,  nothing  in  the  least  amusing. " 

She  peered  at  me  over  her  glasses  rather  nervously,  I 
thought,  as  though  expecting  me  to  fly  into  a  wild  pas- 
sion. 

"Then,  what  am  I  to  do?"  I  asked.  "Am  I  to  stay 
here  all  alone?" 

"No,  my  dear,  we  could  hardly  ask  you  to  do  that," 
she  said,  with  a  little  awkward  laugh.  "You  see,  for 
one  thing,  we  are  going  to  have  a  regular  cleaning  in 
the  house  here — it  is  needing  it  terribly — and  so,  if  the 
housemaids  are  to  have  a  fair  chance,  we  cannot  well 
have  any  one  living  in  the  house.  And  so  your  uncle 
thought  that  perhaps  you  would  not  mind  staying  for 
ten  days  or  so  at  the  old  Manor  House  with  Mrs.  Bed- 
dington.  There  is  a  very  charming  room  there  that  you 
could  have,  and  the  old  woman  is  really  an  excellent 
cook.  Do  you  think  you  would  be  terribly  embttte? 
Sophie,  I  know,  would  die  of  ennui  in  six  hours,  but  you 
are  so  different,  so  fond  of  roaming  about  the  woods  by 
yourself,  so  independent  and  strong,  that  we  thought 

202 


FLICKERS  ON  THE  RAFTERS  203 

perhaps  you  would  not  dislike  it  very  much.  What  do 
you  say,  child?  Of  course,  if  you  object,  we  could  try 
and  make  some  other  arrangements." 

Aunt  Harriet  blinked  at  me,  and  I  stared  back  at  her 
in  such  utter  amazement  of  mind  that  I  could  find  no 
words.  Stay  at  the  Manor  House  with  Mrs.  Bedding- 
ton,  the  forbidden!  And  at  Uncle  Guy's  suggestion, 
too!  It  was  too  bewildering! 

I  shall  remember  that  scene  to  my  dying  day — the 
last  evening  I  was  ever  to  spend  under  Uncle  Guy's 
roof.  We  were  sitting  in  the  great  hall,  after  dinner  on 
Sunday  night.  Both  the  huge  fireplaces  were  piled  up 
with  blazing  logs,  for  it  was  a  cold,  frosty  night,  and  the 
red  flicker  of  them  went  fitfully  up  into  the  darkness 
above.  Father  Terence  sat  at  the  piano  singing  "He 
Shall  Feed  His  Flock  Like  a  Shepherd,"  in  the  soft  voice 
that  I  liked  so  much  better  than  the  bellowing  that  he 
sometimes  was  inclined  to.  Sophie  and  Norman  were 
playing  chess  on  the  far  side  of  the  fireplace,  and  Aunt 
Harriet  and  I  sat  facing  each  other  on  the  huge  bed- 
like  sofa  that  faced  the  drawing-room  door.  My  uncle 
had  disappeared  to  his  room — he  often  did  after  dinner — 
went  there  to  write  letters,  I  suppose,  or  to  go  to  sleep 
in  a  chair  perhaps. 

I  remember  as  though  it  were  yesterday  the  reflection 
of  the  dancing  firelight  on  Aunt  Harriet's  spectacles, 
and  the  quick,  nervous  jerking  of  her  crochet-needles. 
I  can  see  the  expression  of  Father  Terence's  face  now, 
as,  with  upturned  eyes  and  rolling  head,  he  sang  the 
glorious  words  of  "The  Messiah."  I  remember  thinking 
how  like  a  pig  he  looked,  and  how  I  wished  he  would  not 
keep  turning  his  eyes  on  me,  when  they  were  not  search- 
ing the  gloom  of  the  vaulted  roof. 


204  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

Ah  well!  such  is  the  perverseness  of  human  nature, 
that  the  recollection  of  that  scene  brings  with  it  still  the 
faint  shadow  of  a  regret — in  spite  of  all  that  happened 
afterwards,  and  in  spite  of  the  knowledge  of  what  was 
then  below  the  surface — simply  because  of  the  ridicu- 
lous fact  that  I  was  then  nineteen,  and  am  now — well, 
rather  more. 

And  all  the  actors  in  the  tragedy  that  was  then  brew- 
ing— Father  Terence,  bloated  and  effusive;  Aunt  Har- 
riet with  her  tight,  silky,  iron-grey  curls,  and  thin, 
anxious  face;  Norman,  handsome,  dashing,  and  debon- 
naire:  and  Sophie,  beautiful,  gentle  Sophie,  all  these 
come  back  to  me  now  as  pleasant  ghosts,  in  spite  of  all 
their  mean,  wicked  plottings,  and  forgiven  even  their 
one  crimson  crime  for  the  sake  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

But  of  this  crime  and  these  plottings  Aunt  Harriet 
knew  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  nor  of  course  did 
my  own  sweet  Sophie;  let  itie  hasten  to  make  this  clear 
while  I  may.  They  were  both  puppets,  utterly  uncon- 
scious puppets,  in  the  hands  of — well,  the  Instigator. 
Facts  I  must  record,  but  God  save  me  from  judging  any 
man,  or  from  dwelling  more  than  is  necessary  on  sins 
that  have  been  read  out  before  this  at  the  steps  of  the 
Judgment  Throne!  God  have  mercy  on  that  man's  soul, 
I  say  with  all  my  heart,  Protestant  as  I  am.  So  now  no 
more  of  this,  and  back  to  plain  facts. 

It  is  the  simple  truth  that  I  was  so  overjoyed  at  what 
my  aunt  had  just  told  me  that,  for  decency's  sake,  I  had 
to  bite  my  lips  and  frown  furiously  into  the  fire  to  pre- 
vent breaking  out  into  open  smiles  of  unseemly  joy.  To 
be  alone  with  Mrs.  Beddington,  and  have  unlimited  time 
to  ask  her  the  thousand  and  one  questions  I  was  dying 
to  have  answered,  to  get  away  from  the  gloom  and  mys- 


FLICKERS  ON  THE  RAFTERS  205 

tery  of  Selworth,  and  above  all,  to  be  within  a  mile 
and  a  half  of  Sydney  Grayle's  house,  with  no  one  to 
interfere  with  our  walking  together,  or  sitting  in  Inver- 
snaid  all  day  long,  seemed  such  an  impossible  combina- 
tion of  delights  that  the  prospect  fairly  dazzled  me. 

Aunt  Harriet  looked  at  me  hard,  with  a  sort  of  fright- 
ened, apologetic  look. 

"Of  course,  if  you  dislike  the  idea,  Josephine,  we 
could  perhaps  arrange  things  some  other  way." 

"But,  dear  Aunt  Harriet,  I  don't  dislike  it  at  all,"  I 
said,  truthfully,  and  yet  with  only  half  the  truth. 
"I  should  love  to  sleep  in  that  dear  old  Manor  House; 
and  then,  as  you  say,  I  am  always  quite  happy  climbing 
trees  and  poking  about  in  the  woods  alone." 

O  deceitful  Josephine!  was  that  last  word  quite 
honest? 

My  aunt's  face  brightened  in  a  wonderful  way. 

"You  are  a  dear,  good,  adaptable  child!"  she  said, 
patting  my  hand.  "To  tell  the  honest  truth,  I  was  a 
little  ashamed  of  asking  you.  It  seemed  almost  shabby. 
You  are  quite  sure  you  don't  mind?" 

"Quite,  dear  aunt,"  I  said,  kissing  her.  "I  shall 
really  like  it  much  better  than  stuffy  old  London." 

Father  Terence's  voice  rose  and  swelled  in  a  paean  of 
thanksgiving,  and  Aunt  Harriet,  rising  and  shaking  her 
stiff  skirts,  called  out: 

"Well,  you  young  people,  have  you  finished  your 
game?  It's  half-past  ten,  and  quite  time  for  bed; 
remember  we  have  an  early  breakfast  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  I'm  ready,"  Sophie  cried,  jumping  up.  "I'll 
give  you  the  game,  Norman;  you're  quite  sure  to  win, 
you  know;  you  always  do." 

Sophie's  cheeks  were  rather  redder  than  usual. 


206  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Temper,  temper!"  Norman  said,  playfully.     "Little 
girls  ought  to  learn  to  have  more  self-control." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Sophie,  sweeping  past  disdainfully. 
"Good-night,  mamma"  (kiss). 
"Good-night,  Aunt  Harriet"  (kiss). 
"Good-night,  Sophie  dear"  (kiss,  kiss). 
"Good-night,  Norman." 
"Good-night,  Father  Terence." 


T  TOW  am  I  to  set  about  recording  all  the  events  that 
A  A  crowded  themselves  into  the  following  day — Mon- 
day, the  seventeenth  day  of  January?  It  would  take  a 
book  to  contain  all  that  happened  during  that  long,  end- 
less day — all  the  joys,  surprises,  fears,  horrors — horrors, 
fears,  surprises,  and  joys.  My  day  began  very  early, 
for  I  had  something  to  do.  I  got  up  at  daybreak  and 
slipped  out  at  my  little  glass  door.  To  my  astonishment, 
it  was  not  locked.  I  supposed  they  no  longer  thought  it 
worth  while.  I  ran  down,  through  the  garden,  to  the 
keeper's  house,  and  found  there  what  I  wanted,  which 
was  Tom  Beddington. 

"Tom,"  I  panted,  "do  you  think  you  could  manage 
to  take  this  note  to  [Mr.  Grayle's  house  this  morning? 
It  is  important!" 

"Of  course  I  can,  miss,"  he  said,  with  a  grin  of 
intelligence.  I  suppose  they  all  knew  about  me  and 
Sydney.  "I'll  take  it  this  very  minute." 

"Thank  you,  Tom,"  I  said,  "so  much;  it  would  be 
good  of  you." 

I  had  nothing  to  give  him,  and  I  felt  terribly  ashamed. 
I  had  a  sort  of  idea  keepers  always  expected  something. 
But  I  had  literally  not  a  penny  in  the  world.  It  was  a 
curious  thing  that  though]  my  uncle  and  aunt  gave  me 
everything  in  the  world  I  wanted  in  the  way  of  clothes, 

207 


208  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

besides  countless  other  presents,  they  had  never  given 
me  any  money  at  all.  So  I  had  none — literally  none. 

Tom,  however,  looked  quite  content,  and  I  ran  home, 
and  got  back  to  my  room  without  meeting  any  one,  and 
felt  glad  that  at  any  rate  I  should  see  Sydney  some  time 
that  day. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  clarence  and  the  omnibus  stood 
under  the  portico,  and  I  kissed  and  hugged  them  all, 
even  poor  Norman,  he  looked  so  utterly  wretched,  and 
I  cried  a  little,  and  waved  my  hand  as  they  disappeared 
round  the  bend  towards  the  Greystoke  Lodge.  Every 
soul  was  gone,  even  Father  Terence — no  one  left  in  the 
house  except  the  housekeeper  and  the  housemaids. 
Already  they  were  busy  taking  down  curtains  and  rolling 
up  carpets  in  the  front  rooms. 

I  felt  horribly  depressed. 

It  was  a  lovely  day,  still,  cloudless,  and  sunny,  with  a 
faint  breeze  from  the  east. 

A  stableman  appeared  from  round  the  corner  of  the 
portico,  and  touched  his  cap. 

"What  time  would  you  like  the  dog-cart  round,  miss?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh,  soon,  please!"  I  said.     "In  about  half  an  hour." 

So  in  half  an  hour  my  modest  box  was  hoisted  on  to 
the  back  of  the  dog-cart,  and  off  we  went.  Our  way  lay 
at  first  along  the  road  to  the  Welham  Lodge,  but  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill  we  turned  off  to  the  left  over  the  grass, 
and  followed  the  green  ride  that  eventually  finds  itself  at 
the  Slade  Lodge.  My  spirits  rose  like  magic  as  we 
bumped  and  jolted  along  the  grass  ride  that  ran  so 
smoothly  under  a  horse  but  so  roughly  under  heels.  The 
day  was  glorious,  with  sun  and  calm  and  clearness;  and 
the  rabbits,  who  knew  this  as  well  as  we  did,  were  sit- 


AN  EXODUS  FROM  SELWORTH  209 

ting  out  in  hundreds  along  the  edge  of  the  bracken, 
hardly  deigning  to  move  as  we  lumbered  by,  up  the 
incline. 

Sam  and  I  were  not  talkative.  On  such  a  day  it  is  a 
sin  to  waste  time  and  energy  on  mere  words;  thoughts 
are  so  infinitely  quicker  and  so  much  more  beautiful. 
My  thoughts  that  morning  were  very  beautiful,  and  very 
happy,  too,  but  I  might  as  well  attempt  to  put  them  into 
words  as  to  paint  the  landscape  that  smiled  on  me  from 
either  side.  Both  the  one  and  the  other  would  be  a 
desecration,  and  even  in  the  hands  of  a  master  a  mere 
flimsy  shadow  of  the  reality. 

What  Sam's  thoughts  were  I  don't  know — probably 
beer.  The  only  view  that  calls  up  emotions  in  the  breast 
of  his  class  is  the  view  of  homely  buildings  with  square 
boards  hanging  over  the  door.  However,  away  with 
satire!  If  we  had  all  spent  our  lives  hitting  horses  with 
linen  rubbers,  and  polishing  stirrups,  we  should  perhaps 
be  less  given  to  the  unpractical  reflections  which  are  the 
privilege  of  leisure,  and  which  in  reality  do  good  to  no 
one. 

When  we  turned  off  the  ride  up  the  track  to  the 
Manor  House,  I  got  out  and  walked,  the  jolting  was  too 
awful.  Mrs.  Beddington  had  her  best  cap  and  gown  on, 
and  looked  such  an  old  sweet,  standing  in  the  porch,  that 
I  couldn't  help  kissing  her,  then  and  there,  at  which 
Sam  in  the  dog-cart  stared  his  eyes  out. 

My  room  upstairs  was  so  utterly  delightful  that  when 
we  got  there  I  had  to  kiss  her  again.  The  panelled 
room  at  Selworth  was  not  to  be  compared  to  it.  It  was 
very  low,  with  a  moulded  ceiling  and  dark  oak  panelling 
right  up  to  it.  The  bed  was  small  and  white,  and  all  the 
furniture  of  white  painted  wood  with  a  green  line  running 


210  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

round — the  manufacture,  I  take  it,  of  Henry  Bedding- 
ton,  the  carpenter.  There  was  a  wood  fire  blazing  in 
the  old-fashioned  grate,  and  the  window  was  wide  open 
to  the  sun ;  altogether  a  most  heavenly  little  room.  And 
the  view  from  it  was  a  thing  beyond  words!  My  window 
looked  out  from  the  end  of  the  house  that  faced  the 
park — the  only  window  on  that  side,  as  I  afterwards 
found — and  from  it  I  could  see  up  and  down  the  valley 
that  crossed  below,  and  beyond  it  again  to  where  the 
edge  of  Flexham  Wood  stretched  down  to  the  Plain. 

"Isn't  it  glorious!"  I  murmured,  with  my  head  thrust 
out  to  take  stock  of  what  lay  close  at  hand.  The  gar- 
den ran  round  below  the  window,  bleak  now  and  bare  of 
flowers,  but  marvellously  neat  and  old-fashioned  alid 
delightful.  There  was  an  old  yew  arbour  just  opposite, 
cut  out  of  a  single  tree,  I  think,  and  a  high  box  hedge, 
trimmed  perfectly  square,  dividing  the  garden  from  the 
park  beyond.  On  the  right,  between  the  garden  and 
the  road  track,  was  a  low,  green-painted,  wooden  fence, 
and  a  little  gate,  with  an  iron  latch,  stood  in  the  corner, 
just  where  the  hedge  and  the  fence  met.  I  wondered 
why  there  was  a  second  gate  there,  so  very  near  the  prin- 
cipal one. 

"Yes,"  said  Susan  Beddington  the  practical,  "it's 
nice  and  airy." 

We  went  down  to  the  old  parlour,  and  sat  in  the  two 
tall-backed  elbow  chairs,  with  wings  for  the  head,  that 
stood  one  on  each  side  of  the  fire.  A  kind  of  awkward- 
ness came  over  us,  I  can't  exactly  say  why.  I  noticed 
for  the  first  time,  so  taken  up  had  I  been  with  the  house 
and  my  room  and  everything,  that  the  old  woman  looked 
ill  and  worn.  She  seemed  very  nervous,  poor  old  thing! 
Her  hands  and  her  lips  were  never  still,  and  on  her  face 


AN  EXODUS  FROM  SELWORTH  211 

was  a  look  that  I  had  never  seen  there  before — the  look, 
it  seemed  to  me,  of  a  person  in  physical  fear.  I  noticed 
that  there  was  an  open  Bible  on  the  table  by  her  side. 

Was  this  just  nervousness  on  account  of  the  arrival  of 
a  guest,  I  wondered?  It  seemed  hardly  possible,  and 
such  a  guest,  too!  And  yet,  what  else  could  it  be? 

"I  have  hidden  the  box  all  right,"  I  said,  nodding 
across  at  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  smiling  a  feeble,  twisted  little  smile. 

"What  is  it,  Susan?"  I  said,  dropping  on  my  knees 
beside  her  chair.  "Are  you  feeling  ill?" 

I  felt  horribly  familiar  calling  her  Susan,  but  the  other 
was  such  a  mouthful. 

'''No,  I  am  quite  well,  my  dear,"  she  said;  "please 
get  up  off  the  floor." 

"Then  what  is  it?"  I  said;  "there  is  something — I 
am  sure  there  is!" 

For  a  minute  or  two  she  sat  silent,  staring  hard  into 
the  red,  dancing  flames.  Then  she  said,  turning  her 
spectacles  full  on  to  me: 

"Has  it  never  struck  you  that  it  was  a  very  extraor- 
dinary thing  of  the  Squire  to  send  you  here?" 

''Well,  yes,"  I  said,  "perhaps,  but  there  was  nothing 
else  they  could  do  with  me,  you  see." 

She  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"Everything  that  they  do  is  carefully  thought  out," 
she  said;  "nothing  is  left  to  chance." 

"But  what  possible  object  could  they  have  in  sending 
me  here?" 

"We  shall  find  out  before  long,  I  make  little  doubt. 
In  the  meanwhile,  we  must  just  watch  and  pray,  my 
dear;  what  more  can  two  weak,  helpless  women  do?" 

She  frightened  me  dreadfully  by  her  manner.     Like  a 


212  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

flash,  Norman's  warning  words  came  back  to  me,  "You 
are  in  mortal  danger!"  What  did  it  all  mean?  I  had 
tried  all  Sunday  evening  and  the  following  morning  to 
get  a  word  with  Norman,  and  make  him  explain  himself, 
but  he  had  avoided  me;  there  was  not  a  doubt  about  it, 
he  had  avoided  me  purposely,  so  in  the  end  I  gave  it  up. 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean?"  I  said,  gripping  the  arms 
of  the  chair  and  leaning  forward.  "Do  you  think  they 
would — hurt  us?" 

She  nodded  at  me  gloomily. 

"But  why?  What  have  we  done?  What  have  /  done 
that  they  should  hurt  me?" 

"My  dear,  we  are  both  standing  dangers  to  them,  and 
we  should  be  well  out  of  the  way;  and  I  am  afraid." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  I  said;  "you  must!  I  am  sick 
of  all  this  mystery.  Why  can"t  you  speak  out  plainly?" 

"Because,  till  Wednesday  night  my  lips  are  sealed. 
I  have  given  my  word,  and  I  will  not  break  it — not  even 
to  save  my  poor,  worthless  life.  On  Thursday  I  will  tell 
you  everything,  and  till  then  we  must  just  trust  in  God 
and  be  patient." 

"And — you  think  we  are  in  danger?" 

"I  do,  my  dear.     In  very  great  danger." 

"But  do  you  mean  to  say,"  I  cried,  in  horror,  "that 
Uncle  Guy  would  lend  himself  to  any  scheme  that 
would — be  dangerous  to  me — his  own  niece?" 

"I  have  known  three  generations  of  De  Metriers, " 
she  said,  quietly,  "and  I  heard  plenty  about  Maurice 
when  I  was  a  girl,  and  from  all  accounts  they  change 
little  from  one  generation  to  another.  Any  that  stand 
in  their  way  they  crush  with  as  little  compunction  as  a 
horse  crushes  a  worm.  And  you,  my  dear,  stand  in  their 
way." 


AN  EXODUS  FROM  SELWORTH  213 

"How?"  I  asked. 

"That  is  what  you  will  learn  on  Thursday,  but  not 
before." 

"But,"  I  argued,  "have  I  always  stood  in  their  way 
all  these  nineteen  years,  or  has  it  only  just  begun?" 

"That,  my  dear,  I  cannot  tell  you,  and  I  should  take 
it  kindly  if  you  would  not  press  me  with  questions  which 
I  am  not  allowed  to  answer." 

I  felt  rebuked,  and  fell  back  in  my  chair  thinking. 
Strange  as  it  may  appear,  I  was  not  particularly  fright- 
ened. I  could  not  bring  myself  to  believe  all  that  she 
said.  I  thought  that  she  was  probably  ill  and  nervous, 
and  that  her  mind  was  full  of  fancies  and  imaginations, 
as  old  people's  often  are.  But  when  I  looked  out  at  the 
peaceful,  silent  woods,  smiling  in  the  clear,  bright  sun- 
shine, I  felt  that  the  idea  of  danger — real  danger,  that 
is — was  ludicrous.  Of  course  there  must  be  something — 
I  knew  that — something  that  would  be  affected  by  my 
marrying  Sydney;  and  I  did  thoroughly  believe  that 
they  would  plot  and  scheme  day  and  night  to  prevent  my 
doing  that — in  fact,  they  had  done  so  already — but  any- 
thing beyond  that  I  put  down  as  a  mere  fairy-tale. 
However,  that  was  bad  enough,  and  would  have  been 
quite  sufficient  to  make  me  share  old  Susan's  low  spirits, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  fact  that  I  was  going  to  see 
Sydney  that  very  afternoon,  and  would  be  able  to  tell 
him  everything,  and  ask  his  advice.  With  him  so  near — 
only  a  mile  and  a  half  off — and  with  no  one  to  prevent 
our  seeing  each  other  as  often  as  we  liked,  and  for  as 
long  as  we  liked,  it  was  really  impossible  to  feel  afraid; 
I  couldn't  manage  it. 

At  half-past  twelve  Mrs.  Beddington  and  I  had  our 
luncheon  together,  or  dinner,  as  she  called  it.  It  was 


214  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

the  funniest  meal!  She  had  got  in  a  girl  from  the  vil- 
lage who  waited  on  us  in  the  most  comical  fashion  ever 
seen.  I  suppose  the  girl  had  cooked  it,  too;  certainly 
Mrs.  Beddington  had  not,  for  she  had  been  with  me.  It 
was  not  an  immense  success  from  a  cooking  point  of 
view.  However,  as  was  usually  the  case,  I  was  hungry 
enough  to  overlook  defects  that  would  have  made  Aunt 
Harriet  turn  faint.  Mrs.  Beddington  ate  nothing,  and  I 
think  she  looked  at  me  with  astonishment.  That  any 
one  could  eat  so  much  with  such  a  load  of  mysterious 
danger  hanging  over  her  head  must,  I  suppose,  have 
seemed  to  her  a  thing  beyond  all  understanding. 

We  talked  no  more  about  the  mystery;  that  was 
dropped  by  common  consent.  Besides,  there  was  no 
sense  in  it;  she  wouldn't  answer  questions,  and  the 
subject  was  not  a  lively  one.  So  we  talked  of  Sydney 
instead,  which  was  much  better  in  every  way — and  of 
what  a  splendid  fellow  he  was,  and  what  a  shame  it  was 
that  the  Duke — the  present  one,  that  was — had  turned 
him  off. 

And  then,  about  half-past  one,  I  went  out  down  the 
track  and  across  the  valley  to  Inversnaid.  Sydney,  as  I 
had  foreseen,  was  not  there,  but  it  was  early  yet,  and 
there  was  no  hurry — no  tiresome  luncheon  to  be  back 
for,  or  anything  of  that  sort.  So  I  climbed  up  to  the 
top  of  "my  branch,"  and  sat  there  watching  the  wood 
away  to  the  north,  till  I  saw  him  coming  through  the 
trees.  I  knew  he  would  come,  of  course,  and  I  shouted 
out  from  the  top  of  my  branch  with  all  the  voice  I  had. 
Who  was  afraid  of  a  little  noise  now? — now  that  he  and 
I  had  the  whole  park  to  ourselves?  I  came  tumbling 
down  hand  over  hand,  with  more  speed  than  elegance,  I 


AN  EXODUS  FROM  SELWORTH  215 

am  afraid,  and  plumped  with  a  splash  into  the  leaves  at 
his  feet.  I  had  no  idea  of  spending  the  afternoon  in  a 
tree.  I  wanted  to  take  him  across,  and  show  him  all  my 
favourite  corners  in  the  gardens,  and  the  window  of  my 
room,  and  my  "bolt-hole,"  as  I  called  the  little  glass 
door  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  a  host  of  other  things. 
It  was  too  fine  to  potter  about  the  wood  all  day. 

Sydney  said  he  didn't  care  a  brass  farthing  what  we 
did,  so  long  as  we  did  it  together,  which  was  nice  of  him. 
As  we  went  I  told  him  about  Norman's  strange  speech, 
and  about  the  red  box,  and  Mrs.  Beddington's  warning, 
and  also  about  her  having  called  me  Guy  de  Metrier's 
daughter.  He  looked  extraordinarily  grave  when  I  had 
done. 

"What  do  you  think  it  all  means?"  I  asked. 

"It  means  very  clearly,"  he  said,  "that  they  either 
want  you  married  to  Norman,  or  else — out  of  the  way. 
Which  again  probably  means  that  in  some  way  you  stand 
between  them  and  some  money." 

"How  can  I  possibly  stand  between  them  and  any 
money?" 

"There  maybe  some  legacy  that  we  have  never  heard 
of,  or  there  may  be  a  condition  attached  to  some  will 
that  unless  Norman  marries  you  he  loses  something — 
property  or  money — which  would  revert  to  you.  There 
are  often  mad  conditions  of  that  sort  in  a  will." 

"But  whose  will?" 

"I  don't  know;  how  can  one  tell?  But  there  must 
be  something  of  that  sort;  it  is  the  only  possible  expla- 
nation." 

"And  then,  what  did  she  mean  by  calling  me  Guy  de 
Metrier's  daughter — Mrs.  Beddington,  I  mean?" 


216  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Are  you  quite  sure  she  did?  As  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  she  only  said  she  would  like  to  help  Guy  de  Metrier's 
daughter;  she  didn't  say  it  was  you." 

"No,  but  who  else  could  she  mean?" 

"And,  then,  if  you  were  Guy  de  Metrier's  daughter, 
they  could  not  possibly  want  you  to  marry  Norman." 

"Perhaps  Norman  isn't  his  son!" 

Sydney  shook  his  head. 

"There's  not  the  slightest  use  in  bothering  about  that 
part  of  it,"  he  said;  "apparently  we  shall  know  all  about 
it  on  Thursday,  whatever  it  is.  What  does  trouble  me 
is  the  other  part." 

"What?" 

"Why  all  these  warnings,  or  threats,  or  whatever  they 
are,  and  this  vague  suggestion  of  danger  that  is  hang- 
ing about?  I  don't  like  it.  I  wish  I  could  come  and 
stay  at  the  Manor  House,  too,  and  keep  guard  over 
you!" 

"Oh,  do!"  I  said;  "that  would  be  splendid.  I 
shouldn't  be  afraid  of  anything  with  you  near." 

"I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  do,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
head. 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  what  Lady  Harriet  would  call  les  convenances, 
you  know." 

"Oh,  bother  les  convenances!  What  nonsense  it  is! 
Do  come,  Sydney!" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do,"  he  said.  "I've  got  a 
sister  in  London  I  could  get  to  come  and  stay  with  me, 
and  then  you  could  come  to  my  house.  You  would  be 
safe  enough  there,  I'll  undertake." 

"That  would  be  nice!"  I  said,  feeling  a  little  doubt- 
ful about  the  sister. 


AN  EXODUS  FROM  SELWORTH  217 

We  were  almost  across  the  Plain  by  now,  and  straight 
opposite  the  front  of  the  house.  It  seemed  too  extraor- 
dinary that  Sydney  and  I  should  be  walking  together  right 
in  front  of  the  windows,  and  in  broad  daylight — so 
extraordinary,  in  fact,  that  I  felt  almost  distrustful  of 
the  many  windows,  blinded  and  shuttered  as  they  were. 
Those  windows  were  so  associated  in  my  mind  with  dan- 
ger. It  had  become  such  a  second  nature  with  me  to 
dodge  them,  and  hide  away  along  the  hollows  towards 
the  lake,  that  this  open  flaunting  about  with  the  forbid- 
den Sydney,  in  full  sight  of  them,  made  me  feel  horribly 
guilty  and  wicked.  I  think  I  half  expected  them  to 
burst  open,  like  the  ports  of  a  ship,  and  wither  us  with 
hidden  lightnings. 

We  were  across  the  road  now,  and  opposite  the  belt 
of  chestnuts  and  beeches  that  run  between  the  house  and 
the  stables — the  same  belt  of  trees  that  fringed  the 
balustrade  outside  my  window.  I  wanted  to  show  Sydney 
my  window,  and  the  place  where  I  dropped  down  out  of 
the  garden,  and  the  other  place,  near  the  corner,  where 
the  gutter-pipe  helped  me  to  climb  up  again.  The 
ground  under  the  trees  was  six  feet  below  the  level  of 
the  garden,  so  that  one  couldn't  see  in  without  first 
climbing  up. 

I  scrambled  up  first,  and  then  turned  round  to  watch 
Sydney  and  see  how  he  did  it;  and  then  we  both  sidled 
along  the  balustrade  towards  the  place  behind  the  holly 
bush  where  I  generally  got  over.  I  was  just  putting  up 
my  foot  to  vault  over,  when  I  felt  Sydney  tug  me  by  the 
sleeve. 

"Keep  down!"  he  whispered. 

I  was  all  too  used  to  hiding  and  dodging,  and  dropped 
down  like  a  hare.  We  crouched  side  by  side,  with  our 


218  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

eyes  just  above  the  parapet,  and  then  I  saw  a  sight  that 
for  the  first  time  during  all  these  days  sent  a  thrill  of 
genuine  terror  creeping  down  my  spine. 

Father  Terence  and  Norman  were  talking  just  outside 
my  little  glass  door!  Father  Terence  and  Norman! — 
both  of  whom  I  had  seen  start  for  London  that  very 
morning!  What  did  it  mean?  I  could  hardly  believe 
my  eyes. 

I  turned  round  and  looked  at  Sydney.  His  face  had 
a  look  on  it  I  had  never  seen  there  before.  As  a  rule, 
his  face  wore  a  careless,  laughing  expression,  as  that  of 
a  man  who  finds  it  hard  to  take  things  seriously.  But 
now  it  looked  grim  and  stern,  even  to  fierceness;  his 
brows  were  bent  and  his  teeth  forced  tightly  together. 

"Hush!"  he  said;  "listen!" 

Father  Terence  was  talking  earnestly — almost  angrily, 
in  fact.  He  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  was  emphasizing 
his  words  by  banging  one  hand  into  the  other.  His  man- 
ner was  that  of  a  masterful  man  issuing  orders.  Norman 
stood  about  six  feet  off  on  the  path,  with  his  hands  deep 
in  his  pockets;  he  was  kicking  the  gravel  with  his  toe, 
and  now  and  then  I  saw  him  shrug  his  shoulders.  He 
was  looking  down  sulkily,  and  his  whole  figure  was  limp. 

It  was  quite  clear  they  were  having  a  disagreement, 
but  what  it  was  about,  and  what  they  were  saying,  we 
could  not  hear;  the  leaves  rustled  so  in  our  ears.  Father 
Terence  seemed  to  be  using  his  powers  of  persuasion 
without  effect,  for  Norman  kept  shaking  his  head  with 
an  appearance  of  some  decision.  Suddenly  he  lifted  his 
head,  and  spoke  rapidly  for  some  minutes,  while  the 
priest  stood  and  glowered  at  him  heavily.  In  the  end, 
with  a  sharp  nod  of  the  head,  he  spun  on  his  heel  and 
strode  away.  Then  at  last  we  heard  Father  Terence's 


AN  EXODUS  FROM  SELWORTH  219 

words,  for  he  lifted  his  great  voice,  and  bellowed  after 
him: 

"So,  you  poor  calf-headed  dolt,  you  would  sacrifice 
your  faith  and  your  family,  your  Church  and  your  kin, 
for  the  sake  of  a  smooth,  silly  baby-face!  Bah!  you 
fairly  sicken  me!" 

He  stood  for  an  instant  scowling  after  Norman's 
retreating  figure,  and  then  turned  into  the  house,  and 
slammed  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MRS.  BEDDINGTON   SPEAKS 

YDNEY  and  I,  without  a  word,  dropped  down  again 
among  the  leaves,  and  crept  out  into  the  open. 
Sydney  was  very  white,  and  I  was  trembling  like  a  leaf. 
In  dead,  unbroken  silence  we  strode  best  pace  across  the 
Plain — thinking.  They  were  not  pleasant  thoughts;  at 
least  I  can  answer  for  my  own,  and  judging  from  Syd- 
ney's face,  his  were  little  better.  I  think  it  was  the 
uncertainty — the  underhand  secrecy  of  the  whole  thing, 
that  frightened  me  so.  A  man — and  even  a  woman — 
can  face  an  open  danger  bravely  enough  so  long  as  they 
can  see  it,  but  a  terror  that  creeps  in  the  dark  is  a  hor- 
rible thing  for  any  one.  I  know  this  sight  of  Father 
Terence  frightened  me  more  than  all  the  vague  warnings 
I  had  had  from  Norman  and  Mrs.  Beddington — far  more. 
I  felt  completely  stunned  and  bewildered. 

We  must  have  walked  half-way  across  the  Plain  before 
either  of  us  spoke.  Then  I  said: 

"What  on  earth  does  it  mean,  Sydney?  I  saw  them 
drive  off  to  the  station  this  morning." 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said;  "some  infernal  scheming 
and  plotting,  you  may  bet  your  life.  But  what  does  it 
matter?  I  don't  know  why  we  should  bother  ourselves 
about  them  after  all.  To-morrow  I'll  telegraph  to  my 
sister  to  come  down,  and  we'll  have  you  out  of  this,  and 
into  my  house;  and  then  they  may  plot  away  till  they're 
black  in  the  face  for  all  we  shall  care.  Eh,  Joe?" 

220 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  SPEAKS  221 

He  spoke  brightly  and  cheerfully,  but  I  was  not  in  the 
least  taken  in.  'I  saw  perfectly  well  that  he  was  just  as 
frightened  as  I  was  myself.  His  hand  kept  gripping  his 
stick  till  the  knuckles  stood  out  quite  white  and  hard, 
and  he  slashed  viciously  at  the  bents  and  ferns. 

"Are  you  coming  back  to  have  some  tea?"  I  said. 
"Do!  Mrs.  Beddington  wants  to  see  you,  I  know." 

"Yes,  I'll  come,"  he  said,  shortly. 

Down  in  the  bottom  we  saw  Henry  Beddington  in 
front  of  us  limping  up  to  the  Manor  House,  with  a  car- 
penter's bag  over  his  shoulder.  He  must  have  gone 
round  by  the  green  ride,  along  the  hollow,  or  we  should 
have  seen  him  before.  I  think  Uncle  Guy  objected  to 
any  one  walking  across  the  Plain — except,  of  course,  the 
family  and  visitors — they  could  be  seen  so  plainly  from 
the  windows. 

"Is  he  all  right?"  Sydney  asked,  nodding  at  him. 

"What,  Henry  Beddington?  Good  gracious,  Sydney, 
of  course  he  is;  all  the  Beddingtons  are  all  right.  What 
a  question  to  ask!" 

"And  you  are  quite  sure  of  your  friend,  the  old  lady?" 

"Absolutely  sure — as  sure  as  I  am  of  myself." 

"H'm!  She  has  not  got  a  very  clean  record,  you 
know." 

"Why,  what  is  there  against  her?" 

"Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  stories  about  her;  but,  of 
course,  they  are  all  very  old  ones,  and  I  daresay  not 
true." 

"Tell  me  what  they  are ;  I  have  never  heard  of  them. " 

"Well,  if  you  have  never  heard  of  them,  don't  ask. 
Take  her  as  she  is,  and  never  mind  about  what  she  was. " 

"Now  you  are  getting  mysterious,"  I  said.  "Good- 
ness gracious!  there's  no  end  to  it!" 


222  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"I  don't  think  there's  much  mystery  about  me,"  he 
said,  laughing.  "I  am  a  very  plain,  commonplace  sort 
of  person." 

"But  why  don't  you  tell  me?"  I  cried,  almost  angrily. 
"Why  be  so  secret?" 

"Because  there's  no  good  in  raking  up  old  scandals. 
I  am  sorry  I  said  anything  about  it.  Come,  little  girl, 
let's  go  in  and  have  some  tea,  and  not  bother  about  what 
happened  a  thousand  years  ago." 

It  was  quite  dusk  when  we  got  in,  and  the  sitting- 
room  looked  wonderfully  bright  and  cheerful.  Mrs. 
Beddington  was  sitting  by  the  fire  with  her  back  towards 
the  door. 

"Susan,"!  said,  "I  have  brought  you  a  visitor." 
*Ah!"    she   said,    without   turning    round,    "you've 
brought  him,  have  you?     Well,  I'm  glad." 

She  dragged  herself  up  out  of  the  chair,  and  stood 
facing  us. 

"Mr.  Grayle,"  she  said,  "you  have  got  a  great  treas- 
ure here.  Mind  you  take  care  of  her." 

"I  have  not  got  her  yet,"  he  said,  laughing,  "and 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  people  don't  mean  that  I 
shall." 

"Bah!"  she  said,  contemptuously,  "I  don't  know  what 
you  young  men  are  made  of  nowadays.  Fifty  years  ago 
if  a  lad  was  in  love  with  a  winsome  maid,  and  she  with 
him,  he  married  her  first,  and  thought  about  the  trouble 
afterwards — and  that  in  spite  of  father,  mother,  uncle, 
or  priest." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said,  doubtfully. 

"What  do  I  mean?  Why,  that  you  should  take  and 
marry  her  to-morrow.  What's  to  hinder  you?" 

There  was  a  long  silence.     Old  Susan  fixed  her  pier- 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  SPEAKS  223 

cing  eyes  on  Sydney,  Sydney  looked  at  me,  and  I  looked 
at  the  hearthrug. 

"It  is  very  unusual,"  he  said  at  length. 

"Unusual!"  she  echoed;  "you will  find  more  unusual 
things  than  that  happen  if  you  are  not  quick.  Goodness 
me!  in  my  day  lovers  didn't  bother  about  trifles  of  that 
kind." 

"Possibly  not,"  he  said,  a  little  coldly.  "It  might 
have  been  better  if  they  had,  sometimes.  You  see,  Mrs. 
Beddington,  I  am  not  the  only  person  to  be  considered; 
and  I  tell  you  plainly  that  I  would  sooner  not  marry 
this  young  lady  at  all  than  marry  her  in  a  way  that  would 
get  her  talked  about." 

"Ah,  well!"  said  Mrs.  Beddington,  "every  one  to 
their  own  fashion  of  wooing.  But,  for  my  own  part,  give 
me  the  man  who  marries  first  and  thinks  about  it  after- 
wards." 

"Or  who  doesn't  marry  at  all?"  suggested  Sydney. 

The  old  woman  laughed  shrilly. 

"Sydney  Grayle,"  she  said,  "I  am  an  old  woman, 
and  I  am  not  going  to  quarrel  with  you;  besides,  I  am 
your  friend  in  this  business,  not  so  much  for  your  sake, 
of  course,  as  for  Miss  Josephine's,  but  still  your  friend 
because  of  her." 

Sydney  bowed. 

"And  a  very  valuable  friend,  too,  I  am  sure,"  he  said. 

"You  may  well  say  that,  Sydney  Grayle,"  the  old 
woman  said,  nodding;  "and  if  you  think  what  you  say, 
you  will  act  upon  my  advice,  like  a  sensible  lad,  and 
marry  the  girl  while  you  can.  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about,  mind  you." 

"Why  is  there  such  a  great  hurry?"  Sydney  asked, 
smiling.  I  think  Mrs.  Beddington  amused  him. 


224  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

'O  good  lack!  Good  lack!"  she  cried.  "Was  there 
ever  such  a  poor,  wishy-washy  lover  as  this?  It  was  the 
girls  used  to  ask  that  question,  not  the  men.  Sydney 
Grayle,  I  think  nothing  of  you ;  and  with  a  bride  fit  for  a 
prince  waiting  for  you,  too!  Well,  well,  the  girls 
always  are  a  world  too  good  for  the  men  they  throw 
themselves  away  upon." 

She  turned  away  with  uplifted  hands  and  a  shrug  of 
her  thin  shoulders,  and  Sydney  and  I  both  laughed  out- 
right. She  was  so  serious  over  it. 

"What  do  you  think  we  saw  at  Selworth  this  after- 
noon?" I  said,  wishing  to  change  the  conversation. 

She  looked  at  me  enquiringly. 

"How  should  I  know?"  she  said,  sharply.  "I  know 
what  /  should  have  seen  if  I  had  been  there — a  poor 
noodle  of  a  young  man  mooning  about  with  his  lass." 

"Well,  what  we  saw,"  I  said,  "was  Father  Terence 
and  Norman  in  the  garden." 

Her  hand  went  up  and  caught  the  edge  of  the  chim- 
ney-piece, and  her  face  turned  quite  slowly  to  a  dead 
white.  She  staggered  along  the  front  of  the  fire,  and 
with  a  sigh  sank  back  into  her  chair,  staring  fixedly 
before  her  at  the  wall. 

"Norman  and  Father  Boyle?"  she  said.  "No 
others?" 

"No,  we  saw  no  one  else." 

"Ah!"  she  said,  dully.  Then,  after  a  little:  "You 
or  me,  my  dear,  you  or  me — one  or  the  other,  and  very 
soon  now." 

Sydney  and  I  glanced  at  each  other. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Beddington?"  he  asked, 
in  a  clear,  loud  voice.  "Do  you  attach  any  particular — 
importance  to  these  two  having  come  back?" 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  SPEAKS  225 

She  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  In  a  dazed  kind  of  way 
she  went  on  muttering  to  herself: 

"God  help  us  all!  God  have  mercy  on  me,  a  miser- 
able sinner!  I  thought  the  Lord  might  have  turned  the 
Squire's  heart — not  the  priest's,  of  course,  but  the 
Squire's — but  it  was  not  to  be." 

It  was  ghastly  to  hear  her;  she  spoke  like  a  woman 
walking  in  her  sleep,  in  a  dull  monotone,  and  with  glazed 
eyes. 

"So  the  end  has  come,"  she  went  on,  "the  end  has 
come  at  last!" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Susan?"  I  cried,  roughly,  for  I 
was  dreadfully  frightened.  "What  are  you  talking 
about?  What  end?  The  end  of  what?" 

I  caught  her  by  the  shoulder,  and  shook  her,  but  she 
took  no  notice.  She  just  kept  rocking  backwards  and 
forwards,  muttering  vague  prayers  and  lamentations. 

"Stay  here  a  minute,"  I  said  to  Sydney.  "I  will  be 
back  directly." 

I  ran  into  the  dining-room,  where  I  knew  there  was  a 
bottle  of  brandy  standing  in  the  cupboard.  Pouring  out 
half  a  tumbler,  I  hurried  back  and  placed  it  in  her  hand. 

"Drink  it,"  I  said;  "it  will  do  you  good." 

She  held  it  for  a  minute  or  two,  staring  at  it  vacantly; 
then  she  put  it  to  her  lips  and  drained  it  to  the  last  drop. 
The  effect  was  magical.  A  faint  colour  sprang  to  her 
cheeks,  her  eye  became  human  once  more,  and  she 
glanced  round  at  us  nervously. 

"What  have  I  been  saying?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing,  Mrs.  Beddington, "  Sydney  answered.  "I 
wish  you  had." 

"Well,  I  will  say  something  now,"  she  said.  "Come 
here,  both  of  you." 


226  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

We  went  forward  and  stood  before  her,  and  I  slipped 
my  hand  into  Sydney's.  She  stared  at  us  for  an  age 
through  her  spectacles  before  she  spoke.  Then  she  said, 
slowly: 

"Sydney  Grayle,  the  air  is  full  of  danger  for  this  little 
maid  who  has  given  you  her  heart.  Take  her  away  and 
marry  her — at  once — to-morrow — this  very  evening,  if 
you  can.  Do  you  hear  me?  This  is  no  time  for  fooling 
about  over  fashions  and  customs,  and  what  people  will 
say,  and  what  people  will  not  say.  It  is  life  or  death,  I 
tell  you — life  or  death.  Marry  her  to-morrow,  I  say,  and 
let  all  the  world  know  you  have  married  her,  and  you 
may  save  her  yet.  But  leave  her  here,  and  she  is  lost!" 

"Lost!"  he  said.     "What  do  you  mean  by  Most'?  " 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  she  cried.  "And  unless  you 
are  a  fool,  you  will  do  what  I  tell  you,  and  waste  no  time 
asking  foolish  questions." 

"What  do  you  say,  Joe?"  Sydney  asked,  turning  to 
me.  I  said  nothing,  but  pressed  his  hand. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  stoutly;  "I  will  do  it.  I  will 
be  round  here  by  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow  morning, 
and  we  will  drive  straight  off  to  Ashby  Church  and  be 
married.  And  in  the  meanwhile,  what  of  to-night?" 

"To-night  we  are  in  the  Lord's  hands,"  Mrs.  Bed- 
dington  answered,  resignedly. 

"What  is  it  you  are  afraid  of?"  Sydney  asked  with 
some  impatience.  "Can't  you  tell  us  right  out?" 

"No,  I  cannot,  Mr.  Grayle,  and  what  is  more  I  will 
not.  I  have  warned  you,  and  I  can  do  no  more.  Get 
her  away,  and  marry  her,  and  she  will  be  safe  enough." 

"Yes,  she  will  be  safe  enough  with  me,"  Sydney 
answered.  "But  what  about  yourself,  Mrs.  Bedding- 
ton?" 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  SPEAKS  227 

"I  am  an  old  woman,"  she  said,  "and  my  time  is 
short  in  any  case.  They  will  kill  me." 

"Kill  you!"  we  exclaimed  together. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  calmly,  "they  will  kill  me — kill  me 
to  silence  my  tongue.  If  I  spoke  out  I  could  save  my 
life,  but  I  will  not,  and  the  Squire  knows  that — not  at 
least  before  Thursday.  He  knows  that  I  will  die  before 
I  will  break  my  word,  and  die  I  will.  I  am  a  great  sin- 
ner— God  knows!  an  awful  sinner — but  I  will  not  go 
before  the  Judgment  Throne  with  perjury  on  my  lips  to 
spin  out  a  year  or  two  more  of  my  useless  old  life.  So 
never  mind  about  me,"  she  added,  flourishing  her  hands 
excitedly  in  the  air;  "see  to  yourselves,  and  remember 
the  red  box,  for  whatever  does  come  will  come  between 
this  and  Thursday." 

"Does  your  son  sleep  here?"  Sydney  asked. 

"Yes,  Henry  sleeps  here." 

"Has  he  a  gun?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  has  a  gun.  But  what  is  the  use  of 
that?" 

"It  may  be  of  every  use.  Make  him  sleep  here  on  the 
sofa,  with  the  gun  loaded  by  his  side." 

"Well,  for  Miss  Josephine's  sake,  I  will,  just  for 
to-night.  But  you  may  be  sure  that  one  poor  man  and 
a  gun  are  not  much  use  against  the  wiles  of  the  Devil." 

"Never  mind;  you  make  him  do  it.  And  now  I  must 
be  off.  I  must  go  and  make  arrangements  for  our  mar- 
riage to-morrow;  I  hardly  like  to  call  it  a  wedding.  Will 
you  come  to  the  gate  with  me,  Joe?" 

He  shook  hands  cordially,  and  with  a  great  show  of 
cheerfulness,  with  Mrs.  Beddington,  and  then  we  went 
out  together  into  the  still,  frosty  evening.  It  was  quite 
dark  now,  with  a  clear  starlit  sky,  and  a  faint  light  away 


228  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

to  the  East  that  told  that  the  moon  would  be  up  before 
many  hours. 

"Joe,"  he  said,  "which  is  your  room?" 

I  took  him  round,  and  pointed  up  to  my  window  star- 
ing with  its  single  eye  out  of  the  blank  wall. 

"Do  you  sleep  with  it  shut?" 

"No,  open — always." 

"Well,  shut  it  to-night,  and  bolt  it,  and  lock  your 
door.  Do  you  promise?" 

"It  will  be  so  stuffy,  Sydney,"  I  said. 

"Never  mind  that  for  one  night;  do  it." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  "but  I  think  it's  nonsense." 

"Little  girl,"  he  said,  taking  me  by  the  shoulders, 
"it  is  horrible  having  to  leave  you  like  this.  I  would 
give  the  world  to  be  able  to  stay  with  you,  and  guard 
you.  But  it  is  only  for  one  night,  and  I  shall  not  be  far 
off,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  If  I  sleep  at  all,  it  will  be 
with  one  eye  open." 

"Like  a  dear  old  watch-dog,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  like  a  watch-dog.  And  now,  good-bye,  little 
Joe,  and  God  bless  and  guard  you!" 

He  hugged  me  so  tight  that  I  almost  screamed;  then, 
without  another  word,  he  turned  away  and  strode 
down  the  track.  In  about  a  minute  he  came  running 
back. 

"Joe,"  he  whispered,  "before  you  go  to  bed  put  your 
hand  on  the  ledge  outside  the  sitting-room  window. 
You  will  find  a  present  for  you  there.  Good-bye!" 

I  stood  as  still  as  stone  till  the  last  sound  of  his  foot- 
steps had  died  away,  and  then  slowly  went  back  into  the 
house.  Mrs.  Beddington  was  sitting  by  the  fire  staring  at 
an  open  Bible  on  her  knee,  and  without  a  word  I 
dropped  into  the  chair  opposite,  and  sat  there  thinking. 


MRS.  BEDDINGTON  SPEAKS  229 

Strange,  mixed  thoughts  they  were  that  came  crowding 
into  my  brain — thoughts  principally  of  Sydney,  and  of 
his  dear,  strong  face  and  cheery  voice;  but  also 
thoughts  of  Chelmsford,  and  of  the  kind  old  aunts  that 
the  name  brought  back  to  me,  and  of  what  they  would 
think  of  this  helter-skelter  marriage;  and  lastly,  thoughts 
of  Selworth,  and  of  the  silent,  creeping  danger  that 
seemed  to  be  hanging  over  our  heads. 

Our  supper  that  night  was  not  a  cheerful  one.  We 
spoke  little  and  ate  less.  Not  a  word  passed  our  lips  on 
the  subject  that  must  have  been  in  both  our  minds. 
What  was  the  good  of  it?  There  was  nothing  to  be 
gained,  and  it  only  depressed  one.  Only,  when  we  rose 
to  go  to  bed,  old  Susan  took  me  by  the  hand  and  said, 
gravely: 

"Miss  Josephine,  I  wonder  whether  you  will  ever  for- 
give me  for  all  the  trouble  I  have  brought  upon  you. 
I  have  done  you  a  terrible  wrong,  as  you  will  find  out 
some  day,  and  I  am  suffering  for  it  now — suffering  as  I 
deserve  to  suffer.  But  remember  this,  my  dear,  that  the 
greatest  happiness  sometimes  springs  out  of  troubles  of 
this  kind ;  and  when  you  have  found  that  happiness — as 
God  willing!  you  will  find  it — perhaps  you  will  think 
less  hardly  of  old  Susan  and  her  many  sins." 

There  were  tears  in  her  poor  old  eyes,  and  I  took  and 
kissed  her  as  I  might  my  own  mother. 

"Whatever  happens,"  I  said,  "I  will  always  think  of 
you  as  the  dearest,  kindest  old  thing  that  ever  lived." 

She  went  labouring  up  the  narrow  wooden  stairs,  and 
I  slipped  out  of  the  door  into  the  night,  to  see  if  Sydney 
had  been  back  and  left  his  present  for  me.  I  found 
it — on  the  window-ledge  where  he  said  he  would  put  it. 
It  was  a  revolver,  very  small  and  brightly  polished,  and 


230  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

I  took  it  in   my  hand,  and  crept  back  into  the  house. 
What  a  wedding  present,  I  thought! 

I  dragged  myself  miserably  upstairs,  and  laid  the 
thing  on  the  table.  I  had  no  notion  of  how  to  use  it, 
but  had  an  idea  that  if  I  touched  the  trigger  it  would  go 
off.  Down  on  the  ground  floor  I  heard  Henry  Bedding- 
ton  bolting  and  barring  the  doors  and  shutters,  and 
stumping  about  in  the  room  below.  I  knew  he  was  mak- 
ing preparations  for  his  night  upon  the  sofa.  I  remem- 
ber hoping  that  his  gun  wouldn't  go  off  and  shoot  me 
through  the  ceiling;  and  then  I  laughed — actually 
laughed!  It  seemed  so  absurd — a  carpenter  and  a  girl  in 
her  teens  sleeping  with  loaded  guns  and  revolvers  by 
their  sides.  If  they  shot  anything,  it  would  probably  be 
each  other. 

I  sat  down  by  the  window  and  looked  out.  Good- 
ness! what  a  long  day  it  had  been!  The  twinkling  stars 
blinked  peacefully  down  from  a  cloudless  sky,  and  away 
to  the  left  the  rising  moon  threw  a  faint  silver  light  over 
the  tops  of  the  dense,  silent  woods.  In  an  hour,  I 
thought,  the  place  would  be  as  light  as  day.  I  wished 
they  had  a  dog;  a  dog  would  have  made  me  feel  quite 
safe;  it  was  ridiculous  not  to  have  a  dog  in  a  house  like 
this.  The  grandfather  clock  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
struck  eleven;  time  I  was  in  bed  and  asleep,  I  thought. 
I  bolted  the  window,  and  locked  the  door  as  I  had  prom- 
ised Sydney,  and  threw  myself  on  my  bed,  clothes  and 
all.  Next  moment  I  jumped  up  and  blew  out  the  can- 
dle; it  was  impossible  to  sleep  with  a  candle  blazing  in 
one's  eyes.  There  was  a  red  patchwork  eider-down 
quilt  on  the  bed,  and  I  drew  this  up  to  my  chin,  and 
kicking  off  my  shoes,  curled  myself  up  like  a  whiting. 
I  think  I  fell  asleep  at  once. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  END  OF  THE  OLD  MANOR  HOUSE 

T  1  THEN  I  woke  up,  the  moon  was  showing  plainly 
*  *  through  the  blind  and  the  white  dimity  curtains 
that  covered  the  blind.  I  wondered  what  o'clock  it 
was,  and  why  I  was  suddenly  so  wide  awake.  And  then, 
next  moment,  while  I  was  in  the  very  act  of  wondering, 
I  knew.  For  outside  my  window  1  heard  quite  plainly  a 
scraping,  grating  noise,  like  the  noise  of  stones  rubbing 
together.  My  heart  gave  one  huge  thump,  and  then 
stood  stock  still.  So  it  had  come,  I  thought,  this  creep- 
ing horror — it  had  come  at  last!  I  thought  of  the  sen- 
sation it  would  make  in  the  papers:  "Horrible  murder 
at  the  old  Manor  House,  Selworth!  Young  lady  found 
with  her  throat  cut!  Supposed  clue!  Activity  of  the 
police!" 

I  wondered  if  they  would  give  any  description  of  me, 
and  how  they  would  describe  me  if  they  did.  I  thought 
of  Sydney,  in  deep  black,  with  a  sad,  white  face,  putting 
flowers  on  my  grave.  That  was  rather  a  nice  thought, 
and  I  dwelt  on  it.  I  wondered  where  they  would  bury 
me — Ashby,  perhaps — I  hoped  it  would  be  Ashby — it 
would  be  so  near  Sydney.  But  then  Sydney  was  leav- 
ing; he  was  going  to  America.  He  would  probably 
marry  some  one  else,  and  forget  all  about  me.  And 
perhaps  in  twenty  or  thirty  or  forty  years  he  would  come 
back,  very  grey  and  tired,  and  would  go  and  stand  over 

231 


232  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

my  grave,  and  remember  all  about  the  old  days  at  Sel- 
worth,  and  perhaps  put  a  few  primroses  or  violets  on  the 
green  mound  with  the  plain  headstone.  It  would  be 
quite  green  then,  and  grown  over,  and  the  stone  would 
be  stained  grey  and  brown  and  yellow,  and  the  letters 
on  it  would  be  quite  indistinct.  He  would  have  to  stoop 
down  to  read  them,  and  perhaps  to  wipe  his  glasses. 

JOSEPHINE  DE  METRIER 
AGED  19  YEARS 

MURDERED  ON  THE  I7TH  JANUARY  1858  AT 
THE  OLD  MANOR  HOUSE,  SELWORTH 

Did  they  put  it  on  the  tombstone  when  people  were 
murdered?  I  was  not  quite  sure. 

What  had  happened  to  that  noise  outside?  It  had 
stopped.  Perhaps  it  was  nothing — Henry  Beddington 
going  round  to  see  that  all  was  clear,  perhaps.  His 
mother  must  have  told  him  to  be  on  the  look-out.  What 
a  fool  I  was!  Frightened  of  everything  and  nothing,  and 
imagining  all  these  idiotic  things! 

How  cold  it  was!  My  feet  were  like  ice;  that  was 
why  I  couldn't  sleep,  of  course.  I  drew  my  feet  up,  and 
got  inside  the  bed,  pulling  up  the  clothes  to  my  chin.  I 
might  just  as  well  be  warm,  even  if  they  were  going  to 
murder  me. 

Ah!  that  was  better. 

My  eyes  grew  heavy,  and  I  felt  very  comfortable,  and 
forgot  all  about  the  noises  of  the  night.  At  last  I  even 
began  to  think  that  I  had  not  heard  them — that  I  had 
dreamt  them — or  imagined  them,  and  that  in  any  case  it 
was  no  use  bothering  about  it.  I  had  so  often  been 
frightened  by  noises  before  in  the  night,  and  they  had 
always  turned  out  to  be  nothing.  How  I  should  laugh 


THE  OLD  MANOR  HOUSE  233 

over  the  whole  thing  in  the  morning!     And  how  Sydney 
would  laugh  when  I  told  him!     Dear  old  Sydney! 

I  have  no  idea  how  long  I  slept — it  may  have  been 
one  hour,  or  two,  or  three — I  had  no  means  of  judging. 
I  woke  quite  suddenly,  after  a  host  of  horrid  dreams, 
and  for  a  time  the  sounds  of  life  and  the  thoughts  of 
sleep  were  still  mixed  up  in  a  hopeless  jumble.  I  heard 
sounds,  and  distinct  sounds,  but  attached  no  particular 
meaning  to  them.  Then,  at  last,  in  an  instant  as  it 
were,  I  was  wide  awake,  and  sitting  up  in  bed  with  every 
sense  at  its  full  stretch.  What  had  happened?  The 
room  was  full  of  smoke,  and  below  me  was  a  dull,  cease- 
less roar.  The  heat,  too,  was  intense.  Fire!  fire! 
fire! 

I  leapt  out  of  bed,  and  made  a  dash  at  my  shoes. 
Thank  goodness!  I  had  my  clothes  on!  I  laced  them  up 
with  feverish,  clumsy  fingers.  There  was  plenty  of 
light — the  light  of  a  full  moon  shining  through  the  win- 
dow, and  mingling  with  it,  a  red,  lurid  glow  that 
seemed  to  fill  the  whole  atmosphere.  Heavens!  what  a 
horrid  crackling1  and  what  a  sickening  heat!  The  floor 
seemed  to  be  curling  up  under  my  feet.  Susan!  I 
thought — poor  old  Susan!  Where  was  she?  Was  she 
awake?  Had  she  escaped?  Or  was  she  in  her  room, 
prisoned  and  helpless?  At  any  cost  she  must  be 
saved ! 

I  rushed  to  the  door,  unlocked  it,  and  flung  it  open. 
Next  instant  I  stumbled  back  appalled.  A  huge  fountain 
of  flame  was  spouting  up  the  staircase,  filling  it  from 
side  to  side  as  water  fills  a  pipe — red,  angry,  murderous 
flame  that  licked  and  lapped  and  darted  with  long, 
fierce  tongues  down  the  short  little  passage  that  ran  to 


234  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

my  room.  I  was  doomed,  imprisoned  —  hopelessly, 
horribly  imprisoned.  To  have  advanced  six  feet  would 
have  been  certain  and  instant  death. 

"Susan!"  I  screamed,  "Susan!     Fire!  fire!  fire!" 

Was  it  possible  she  was  still  sleeping?  Or  had  Henry 
Beddington  rescued  her  at  the  beginning?  A  long, 
vicious  flame  shot  out  of  the  red,  glowing  mass  to  within 
a  foot  of  my  face.  I  staggered  back  into  my  room, 
shrieking,  with  my  hands  over  my  eyes;  I  thought  I  was 
blinded. 

The  window!  I  thought;  I  must  throw  myself  out; 
better  any  number  of  broken  limbs  than  this  ghastly, 
grilling  death.  I  coughed  and  choked  and  spluttered 
as  I  plunged  with  outstretched  hands  at  the  curtains, 
and  tore  them  apart.  Merciful  heavens!  how  the  smoke 
had  thickened  in  the  last  minute!  The  soles  of  my  shoes 
were  hot,  too — burning  my  feet.  I  dived  under  the  blind 
and  flung  open  the  window.  It  opened  on  a  hinge,  like 
my  window  at  Selworth,  and  the  thing  was  done  in  a 
second. 

The  smoke  dashed  out  in  a  thick  black  column  that 
absolutely  blinded  me  for  a  time.  I  stretched  out  my 
hands,  and  groped  blindly  before  me  in  the  dark — groped 
for  air  and  breath  and  coolness — and  as  I  groped,  my 
hands  struck  against  something  that  projected  above  the 
window-ledge.  I  opened  my  agonised  eyes,  and  peered 
down  through  the  murk.  It  was  a  ladder!  Thank  God! 
a  ladder! 

In  one  instant  I  was  on  the  window-ledge,  and  astride 
it.  I  had  learnt  the  trick  years  before  in  Tom  Jeffery's 
yard  at  Chelmsford.  I  hooked  my  legs  round  the 
uprights,  and  slid — slid  without  any  attempt  at  check — 
just  letting  myself  go.  At  the  bottom  I  came  with  tre- 


THE  OLD  MANOR  HOUSE  235 

mendous  force  against  something  heavy  and  soft. 
I  heard  a  hideous  oath  in  a  gruff  man's  voice,  and  the 
next  moment  found  myself  standing  on  my  feet.  It  was 
in  the  little  yew-clipped  arbour  that  faced  my  window; 
the  end  of  the  ladder  had  been  run  right  into  it,  and  now 
partly  filled  the  entrance.  On  the  ground  I  saw — as 
well  as  my  smarting,  blinded  eyes  could  see — the  strug- 
gling figure  of  a  man.  I  thought  it  must  be  Henry  Bed- 
dington,  and  as  I  stooped  down  to  make  sure,  a  hand 
came  up  and  clutched  me  roughly  by  the  skirt. 

"Curse  you!  you  cat-witted  trull!"  said  the  same 
voice,  "you've  'most  bruk  my  back  with  your  sliding 
tricks!  Damned  if  I  wouldn't  have  let  you  burn,  for  my 
part.  Here,  none  of  that!  You've  got  to  come  along  of 
me,  and  come  quietly,  too.  Ah,  would  you?  you  little 
she-devil !  Hi !  Pete,  hurry  up  here  and  collar  this  bag- 
gage of  yours,  if  you  don't  want  her  knived.  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  be  clawed  and  scratched  for  no  one." 

As  may  be  gathered  from  this  speech,  I  was  engaged 
in  a  fierce  struggle  with  the  man  I  had  overturned  in  my 
descent.  He  had  clutched  my  skirt  as  he  lay  on  the 
ground,  and  gradually  struggling  to  his  feet,  was  trying 
to  increase  his  hold,  while  I  dragged  myself  away  from 
him  with  all  my  might.  I  was  very  strong  for  a  girl,  and 
mercifully  the  foot  of  the  ladder  stretched  between  us, 
right  to  the  back  of  the  arbour,  and  he  had  to  lean  across 
this  to  keep  his  hold  of  me.  The  man  was  on  his  feet 
now,  and  in  the  red  glow  from  the  burning  house  I  recog- 
nised, with  a  shudder,  the  elder  of  the  Morrises — the 
father,  in  fact,  of  the  two  others.  He  was  lame,  I 
thought — thank  Heaven!  he  was  lame!  If  I  could  once 
get  away  he  would  never  catch  me.  The  man  knew  that 
well  enough,  I  fancy;  his  evil  face  scowled  darkly  at  me 


236  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

across  the  ladder.      I   was  tugging  at    my  dress  in  a 
frenzy,  and  hammering  at  his  hand  with  my  own. 

"Softly,  my  lamb,  softly!"  he  said,  with  a  vicious 
grin;  "that's  fine  thanks  to  give  a  cove  for  savin'  you 
from  frizzling,  blessed  if  it  ain't!" 

He  made  an  effort  to  skip  across  the  ladder  and  get 
my  side,  but  by  the  mercy  of  Providence  his  foot  caught, 
and  he  fell  full  length  on  the  gravel.  With  one  tremen- 
dous tug  I  wrenched  myself  free,  and  dashed  at  the  lit- 
tle gate  in  the  corner.  I  heard  a  torrent  of  horrible 
oaths  from  the  arbour,  and  next  moment  the  man  yelling 
for  Pete  to  come  and  catch  me;  then  more  oaths — in 
Pete's  voice  this  time — and  then  the  clang  of  the  little 
gate  that  told  me  he  was  on  my  track ;  and  then  for  a 
time  I  heard  nothing  more  but  my  own  panting  and  the 
thud  of  my  feet  as  I  flew  down  the  incline. 

I  was  a  good  runner,  and  had  little  doubt  that  for  a 
short  distance  I  could  hold  my  own  with  Pete  or  any  other 
heavy-booted  clod;  but  that  I  should  not  last  very  long 
I  knew  well.  I  was  three  parts  exhausted  by  my  strug- 
gle with  the  elder  Morris,  and  I  think  the  smoke  and 
heat  in  the  house  had  got  into  my  lungs,  and  sapped  my 
strength — perhaps  it  was  the  fright,  or  one  thing  on  the 
top  of  the  other,  but  anyhow,  whatever  it  was,  I  felt 
faint  and  weak  and  exhausted  before  I  had  reached  the 
foot  of  the  hill.  My  breath  came  in  short,  quick  sobs, 
and  my  legs  seemed  to  bend  under  me.  The  bottom  of 
the  hollow  was  in  darkness,  for  the  moon  was  very  low 
by  now,  and  I  felt  infinitely  thankful  that  it  was  so,  for 
there  was  no  shelter  there  except  from  knee-deep  bracken. 
And  I  had  a  long  way  to  go  yet!  Merciful  God,  give  me 
strength  to  get  as  far  as  Inversnaid!  If  I  once  got  there, 
with  sufficient  start  to  let  me  get  up,  I  knew  I  should  be 


THE  OLD  MANOR  HOUSE  237 

safe.  I  pressed  up  the  hill,  with  elbows  squared  and  head 
thrown  back,  and  a  pain  like  a  knife  in  my  tired  heart — 
up  and  up,  tripping  and  stumbling  over  the  bracken,  and 
dragging  my  feet  along  at  a  pace  that  was  hardly  better 
than  a  walk,  but  still  always  getting  nearer  and 
nearer. 

I  ^was  among  the  beech-trees  now,  and  knew  I  must 
be  out  of  sight  of  any  one  pursuing.  Had  he  seen  the 
way  I  went,  this  horrible  Pete?  What  were  they  going 
to  do  to  me?  Kill  me?  Torture  me? 

Through  the  naked  branches  ahead  I  could  see  the 
moonbeams  glancing  on  a  huge,  dark,  symmetrical  mass 
that  loomed  up  into  the  sky.  It  was  Inversnaid!  Ah, 
if  only  I  had  not  been  seen!  If  only  my  heart  would 
hold  out  till  I  was  up! 

I  grabbed  at  the  drawbridge  and  dragged  myself  up. 
Tired  as  I  was,  exhausted,  dead  with  terror  and  fatigue, 
I  believe  I  did  the  ascent  quicker  than  I  had  ever  done 
it  before.  I  tore  my  hands,  I  scratched  my  face,  I  lost 
a  shoe  that  flopped  down  into  the  leaves  below,  but  I  got 
up,  over  the  base  of  Sydney's  branch,  and  down  into 
the  sheltering  hollow  beyond. 

I  dropped  on  the  soft  earthen  floor,  and  lay  back 
against  a  branch  with  my  head  on  Arthur's^  Seat.  I  closed 
my  eyes  and  offered  up  silent  thanksgiving  to  Heaven. 
Was  I  safe,  though?  Was  it  not  possible  that  they  might 
have  seen  me?  My  own  panting  had  been  so  loud  that 
it  would  have  drowned  any  footsteps  pursuing  me,  how- 
ever close  they  might  have  been.  I  raised  my  head  and 
listened.  There  was  not  a  sound.  An  owl  hooted 
somewhere  away  towards  Flexham  Wood,  and  from  the 
east  there  came  a  dull,  roaring  sound  that  I  knew  must 
be  the  fire  at  the  poor  old  Manor  House;  but  close  at 


238  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

hand  there  was  nothing  but  intense  stillness — the  still- 
ness of  a  frosty  winter's  night. 

Oh,  for  Sydney!  I  thought.  If  only  I  could  get  my 
strength  again,  I  would  crawl  as  far  as  Elmhurst  and 
hammer  at  the  door  until  he  let  me  in.  It  was  dreadful 
out  here  in  the  wood,  so  lonely  and  silent,  and  so  cold, 
too!  A  minute  before  I  had  been  burning  hot,  but  now 
I  was  cold — cold  as  ice.  I  wished  I  had  some  matches 
with  me ;  I  would  have  lit  a  fire.  There  was  a  host  of 
fuel  at  hand,  collected  by  Sydney  and  me  some  time  back, 
and  piled  beside  the  fireplace  for  future  use. 

Hark!  what  was  that?  A  stick  cracked  in  the  dis- 
tance— no  such  very  great  distance,  either,  and  again, 
closer  at  hand  this  time.  O  Heaven  above!  if  it  were 
they — those  awful  Morrises !  I  could  hear  footsteps  now, 
and  voices — cautious,  whispering  voices,  and  the  crunch- 
ing of  dead  leaves  under  heavy  feet. 

They  were  coming  nearer,  there  was  no  question 
about  it  now — coming  straight  for  where  I  lay.  It  must 
be  the  Morrises — who  else  could  it  be?  They  must 
have  seen  me,  after  all. 

I  sat  up  and  listened.  My  breathing  was  quieter 
now,  and  I  was  not  so  faint. 

"I  tell  you,  I  seed  her  legging  it  straight  for  the 
wood  'ere,"  said  a  voice.  "I'll  bet  she  ain't  a  mile 
away  now." 

"Amileaway!  yer  blasted  fool!"  said  another.  "'Ow 
in  'ell  are  we  to  find  her  fifty  yards  away  on  a  night  like 
this?" 

It  was  old  Morris.  I  recognised  his  horrible,  growl- 
ing, brutal  voice.  And  the  other  must  be  Pete.  I  leant 
my  head  against  the  tree  and  prayed. 

"A  blooming  fine  runner  you  are,  to  be  beat  by  a 


THE  OLD  MANOR  HOUSE  239 

girl!  Gar!  I'd  as  soon  'ave  a  couple  of  women  with  me 
on  a  job  as  you  and  the  old  'un,  blessed  if  I  wouldn't!" 

"You  shut  your  jaw,  Mike;  I'll  run  you  for  a  pot  any 
bloody  when!" 

Mike! — so  there  were  three  of  them!  Good  Lord 
deliver  me! 

"It's  all  along  of  Pete,  and  this  blasted  job  of  'is  and 
Norman's,"  said  the  old  man.  "If  it  'adn't  been  for 
that,  the  pair  of  'em  would  have  been  dead  as  herrings 
by  now,  and  fifty  blooming  pound  in  our  pockets." 

"Well,  and  ain't  we  a-going  to  make  fifty  more  over 
my  job,  yer  silly  old  beggar?  What  are  yer  growling  at?" 

"A  darned  sight  more  likely  lose  the  'ole  lot.  You 
bet  the  governor  won't  pay  if  the  gal  gets  loose,  not  he. 
'Both  of  'em  snug  in  kingdom  come,  and  there's  fifty 
blooming  sovereigns  in  your  pocket,  Joe  Morris,'  says 
he." 

"  'And  you  bring  the  gal  safe  to  Selworth,  and  there's 
another  cool  fifty  from  me,'  says  Norman." 

"And  now  we  ain't  done  either  the  one  or  the  other, 
thanks  to  you!  You  been  and  jolly  well  botched  the 
'ole  show,  that's  what  you  'ave." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Pete,  "she  ain't  far  off.  Hiding  in 
one  of  these  'ere  trees  as  like  as  not — maybe  in  this  very 
blooming  tree  what  we're  standing  under." 

I  saw  the  rays  of  a  lantern  shoot  here  and  there 
among  the  branches. 

"Thick  as  'ell  up  there.  Might  be  twenty  of  'em  up 
there  for  all  we  could  see.  I've  a  blamed  good  mind  to 
get  up  and  'ave  a  squint  round." 

"Rot!"  said  old  Morris.  "You've  botched  the  job 
for  us,  and  we  may  as  well  go  'ome  before  we're  nabbed. 
There'll  be  plenty  about  the  place  before  long." 


240  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"And  what's  to  hinder  us  from  coming  with  the 
others  to  see  what  the  fire's  about,  eh,  you  old  silly? 
Nobody'll  nab  us  for  'elping  to  put  the  bloody  flames 
out,  will  they?" 

"'Ere,  what's  this?"  said  the  third  voice,  that  I  took 
to  be  Mike's.  "Gor  blimme!  if  it  ain't  a  shoe — and  a 
gal's  shoe,  too,  by  God!  Well,  if  so  be  as  this  is  your 
gal's  shoe,  Pete,  she  bain't  far  away,  you  may  bet  your 
life  on  that." 

"'Ere,  I'm  a-going  up,"  said  Pete,  with  the  ring  of  a 
sudden  energy  in  his  voice.  "It's  worth  a  bit  of  climb- 
ing to  nab  this  bird.  Fifty  pound  don't  tumble  down 
from  the  sky  every  day  of  the  week." 

I  heard  the  cracking  and  creaking  of  the  branches  as 
he  began  hauling  himself  up,  and  with  a  sickening  fear 
in  my  heart,  I  jumped  up  and  rushed  past  the  fireplace 
to  the  foot  of  "my  branch."  At  the  same  moment,  the 
light  of  the  dark  lantern  shot  right  across  me,  and  I  knew 
that  I  was  discovered. 

"By  God!  we've  got  her!"  cried  the  old  man  in  wild 
excitement.  "Hurry  up,  Pete,  the  sooner  we  finish  with 
this  job  the  better.  Lord!  what  a  bit  of  luck!" 

I  heard  no  more  at  the  time,  for  faster  than  I  had 
ever  climbed  in  my  life,  I  clambered  up  the  branch — my 
own  particular  branch  of  days  gone  by.  I  knew  every 
turn  and  twist  and  off-shoot  of  that  branch.  I  knew 
where  to  put  each  foot  and  hand  so  as  to  make  the  best 
use  of  the  shape  Nature  had  given  it.  Scores  of  times  I 
had  gone  up  that  branch  for  no  other  reason  in  the  world 
than  a  pure  love  of  climbing;  but  never,  in  all  the  efforts 
of  imagination  that  had  been  brought  to  bear  on  that  par- 
ticular tree,  had  it  entered  into  my  head  that  a  day  would 
come  when  I  should  actually  fly  up  it  for  my  very  life. 


THE  OLD  MANOR  HOUSE  241 

The  rays  of  the  lantern  followed  me  at  every  step, 
and  foul,  coarse  jokes  were  bandied  about  from  one  to 
the  other.  They  were  in  great  good  spirits  now,  these 
horrible  wretches !  I  shut  my  ears  to  them,  and  strug- 
gled on,  with  teeth  clenched,  and  the  terror  of  despera- 
tion hammering  at  my  heart.  Pete  was  on  my  branch 
now;  I  could  hear  the  creaking  of  the  twigs  plainly. 
But  I  never  looked  down.  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  high- 
est point  that  experience  had  taught  me  could  be 
reached,  and  made  for  it  desperately.  I  had  no  partic- 
ular plan  in  my  head,  only  a  fixed  determination  that  I 
would  fling  myself  off  the  tree  sooner  than  be  taken. 
But,  then,  there  were  two  more  of  them  below!  Oh!  it 
was  awful! 

I  reached  the  end  of  the  branch,  where  it  was  no 
bigger  than  a  man's  arm,  and  sat  astride  it,  facing  the 
way  I  had  come.  Pete  was  coming  up  like  a  monkey, 
twenty  feet  below.  I  looked  round  desperately  for  some 
loophole  of  escape.  There  was  none.  The  other 
branches  ended  far  away  to  right  and  left.  Below  me 
was  nothing  but  black,  impenetrable  darkness.  The  ter- 
ror was  awful,  and  before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing,  I 
had  sent  three  piercing  shrieks  out  on  the  still  night  air. 
A  chorus  of  the  vilest  oaths  came  up  from  below. 

"By  God!  missy,"  said  Pete,  between  his  quick  short 
gasps  for  breath,  "if  you  squeak  like  that  again,  I'll  stick 
you  like  a  pig,  by  God,  I  will!" 

He  pulled  out  a  long  clasp-knife,  and  opening  it,  held 
it  between  his  teeth,  and  crept  up  nearer  and  nearer. 
I  could  see  his  horrid  eyes  fixed  on  me  like  a  cat's. 
From  below  muttered  cheers  of  encouragement  came 
hoarsely  through  the  branches. 

"Chuck  her  down,  Pete,  if  she  won't  come  quietly. 


242  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

We'll  get  the  governor's  fifty  that  way,  anyhow;  and 
Norman's  can  go  to  the  devil.  Besides,  she  knows  too 
much  now,  damned  if  she  don't." 

"Now,  missy,  are  you  coming  quietly?"  said  Pete, 
with  the  knife  still  between  his  teeth.  He  was  astride 
the  branch  now,  and  was  dragging  himself  forward  inch 
by  inch.  The  branch  swayed  and  bent  fearfully  under 
the  double  weight,  for  we  were  near  the  extreme  end  of 
it,  and  I  had  to  tuck  my  heels  close  under  me  to  keep  my 
balance.  There  was  nothing  to  hold  on  to.  I  looked 
round  wildly  for  some  weapon  of  defence,  but  there  was 
none — nothing  but  thin  twigs  and  darkness.  Then  a 
thought  came  into  my  head — a  mad,  desperate  thought. 
I  slipped  down  my  hand,  and  pulled  off  my  remaining 
shoe,  holding  it  by  the  toe.  Pete  came  nearer  and 
nearer,  with  a  devilish  grin  upon  his  evil  face.  We  were 
facing  each  other  now,  each  astride  the  branch,  and  not 
more  than  three  feet  apart. 

Suddenly  he  drew  the  knife  from  his  teeth  and  flour- 
ished it  within  an  inch  of  my  face. 

"Gurrr!"  he  yelled,  mouthing  at  me  hideously,  like  a 
maniac. 

And  then  a  very  dreadful  thing  happened.  I  think  I 
was  half  mad  with  terror.  No  words  that  ever  were 
written  could  give  an  idea  of  the  awfulness  of  the  posi- 
tion up  there,  perched  as  I  was  on  a  dancing,  swaying 
little  branch,  with  black  darkness  below,  and  facing  me 
as  villainous  a  looking  ruffian  as  the  world  could  produce, 
with  under  jaw  thrust  out,  murder  gleaming  from  his 
eyes,  and  a  long,  glistening  knife  in  his  hand.  The 
wonder  is  I  didn't  turn  into  a  driveling  idiot  on  the  spot. 

Well,  what  happened  was  this.  It  was  when  he  flour- 
ished the  knife  at  me  that  I  did  it — and  only  from  sheer, 


THE   OLD   MANOR   HOUSE  243 

stupefying  terror.  I  hit  at  him  with  all  my  might  with 
the  shoe,  and  the  heel  struck  him  fair  and  square  to 
the  side  of  the  eye,  and  toppled  him  over  like  a  ninepin. 

It  was  all  done  in  a  second,  and  long  before  I  could 
realise  what  had  happened  I  heard  him  go  crash,  crash, 
crashing  through  the  branches,  and  then  hit  the  ground 
with  a  sickening  thud  right  below  me.  I  all  but  fell 
myself.  The  effort  of  reaching  out  overbalanced  me, 
and  the  leap  of  the  branch  as  he  fell  from  it  all  but  shot 
me  after  him,  but  I  managed  to  hold  on  somehow,  with 
feet  and  hands,  and  chin  and  elbows;  and  I  lay  along 
it  trembling  in  every  limb,  and  peering  down  into  the 
darkness  to  catch  the  whispers  of  the  men  below.  God 
grant  I  hadn't  killed  him.  What  an  awful  thought! 

I  could  see  the  light  of  the  lantern  playing  on  to  a 
white,  upturned  face,  and  the  other  two  crouching  over 
the  fallen  man  and  whispering  excitedly. 

"Is  he  hurt?"  I  called  out,  craning  my  head  forward. 

"Hurt!  yer !  Not  so  hurt  as  you'll  be  before 

we've  done  with  you!  You  wait  a  minute!" 

I  began  slowly  coming  down  the  branch.  I  felt  I 
simply  must  see  how  the  poor  fellow  was,  even  if  the 
others  killed  me.  Perhaps  I  could  help  him  in  some 
way — bandage  him  up,  or  set  a  bone  perhaps,  if  one  was 
broken.  I  suppose  they  saw  or  heard  me,  for  old  Mor- 
ris called  out: 

"You  keep  your  eye  on  her,  Mike;  she'll  slip  us  if  we 
don't  mind.  What's  that?  Listen!" 

I  saw  them  both  raise  their  heads  and  stare  into  the 
trees,  and  the  next  moment  the  lantern  was  turned  off, 
and  everything  was  in  darkness.  What  was  it?  I 
listened,  too,  and  heard  distinctly  the  sound  of  feet  run- 
ning, as  it  seemed,  over  the  crackling  leaves.  The  men 


244  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

below  lay  in  perfect  silence;  not  a  sound  broke  the  still- 
ness except  the  footsteps  coming  nearer  and  nearer. 

Suddenly  they  too  stopped.  For  at  least  a  minute 
the  whole  wood  was  still  as  death.  Then  a  loud,  clear 
voice  called  out: 

"Joe,  Joe!" 

It  was  Sydney. 

"Here!"  I  cried;  "Sydney,  help,  help!" 

I  heard  muttered  oaths  below,  and  the  lantern  once 
more  flashed  searchingly  among  the  tree  trunks. 

"Take  care!  they  have  knives!"  I  called  out;  "they 
will  kill  you!" 

"Sooner  me  than  you,"  he  answered.  "Never  mind 
their  dirty  knives;  I  have  something  better  than  that 
here." 

I  saw  him  striding  towards  us  through  the  trees,  with 
the  lantern  turned  full  upon  his  face.  He  looked  very 
stern  and  very  splendid,  I  thought,  and  he  had  a  thick 
stick  in  his  right  hand.  I  knew  how  the  light  must  blind 
him,  and  I  called  out  again. 

"Take  care,  Sydney;  there  are  two  of  them." 

He  made  no  answer,  but  I  saw  him  grip  his  stick,  and 
give  a  sort  of  loose  hitch  to  his  shoulders. 

And  then,  when  he  was  about  six  yards  off,  they 
rushed  at  him,  both  at  once.  The  lantern  rested  on  the 
ground  and  lit  up  the  whole  scene  plainly  enough.  Syd- 
ney jumped  back  a  yard  or  two,  and  then  I  saw  the  stick 
come  round  like  lightning,  and  Mike  went  head  over 
heels  into  the  leaves.  At  the  same  moment  I  screamed 
out  aloud,  for  old  Morris's  knife  rose  in  the  air,  and 
seemed  to  bury  itself  in  Sydney's  side.  Down  the 
branch  I  went,  scrambling,  slithering,  sliding,  till  I 
reached  the  platform,  and  from  there  swung  myself  down 


THE    OLD    MANOR   HOUSE  245 

into  the  leaves  by  the  first  branch  that  came  to  hand. 
I  fell  all  in  a  heap  on  my  face,  but  I  was  up  in  a  moment, 
and  running  forward  to  where  I  had  last  seen  Sydney. 

When  I  got  there  he  was  kneeling  on  old  Morris's 
chest,  with  a  dripping  knife  in  his  hand.  Mike  lay 
upon  his  face  a  few  yards  off,  groaning. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Sydney?"  I  gasped. 

"No,  no,  little  girl;  I'm  all  right.     Are  you?" 

"Yes,  yes,  but  I  saw  him  stab  you." 

"Oh,  that  was  nothing.  He  didn't  quite  bring  it  off. 
Now,  Joe,  do  you  think  you  could  run  down  to  the 
Manor  House  and  bring  two  or  three  of  the  Bedding- 
tons?  or  anybody  else  would  do  quite  as  well.  You  see 
that  rogue  on  his  face  there  might  come  round  any  mo- 
ment, and  make  it  a  bit  awkward." 

"Of  course  I  can,"  I  said;  "wait  till  I  find  my 
shoes." 

The  shoes  were  lying  close  together  by  the  side  of 
poor  Pete.  I  had  only  time  to  give  him  one  glance  as  I 
ran  off  through  the  trees.  He  looked  horribly  still,  poor 
fellow! 

I  ran  like  a  hare  this  time.  The  thought  of  Sydney 
alone  with  those  three  men  gave  me  strength,  and  I  cov- 
ered the  whole  distance  without  stopping  once;  and  it 
must  be  quite  half  a  mile. 

George  Beddington  and  his  two  boys  were  the  first 
people  I  ran  against. 

"Quick,  quick!"  I  panted.  "Mr.  Grayle  is  alone 
with  the  three  Morrises,  and  if  you  are  not  quick  they 
will  murder  him!" 

"Where,  miss?"  they  all  asked  in- the  same  breath. 

"At  Inversnaid,"  I  said. 

"Inversnaid!     Where  is  that,  miss?" 


246  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  stupid!  The  big  pollard  beech,  of 
course,  towards  Flexham  Wood.  Run,  run!" 

We  were  walking  fast  down  the  incline.  I  had  no 
more  run  left  in  me,  and  it  maddened  me  not  to  be  able 
to  make  them  understand. 

"Now,  straight  forward  in  that  direction,"  I  said, 
"about  half  a  mile  on.  Holloa,  and  he'll  be  sure  to 
hear  you;  but  for  goodness'  sake,  be  quick!" 

The  men  went  off  in  a  trot,  and  I  followed  as  well  as 
I  could.  I  heard  them  holloaing  among  the  trees  beyond, 
and  I  thought  I  heard  Sydney's  answering  shout,  but  I 
was  not  sure. 

I  struggled  on,  and  in  ten  minutes  or  so  came  to  the 
tree.  Old  Morris  and  Mike  were  sitting  on  the  ground 
with  their  hands  bound  behind  their  backs,  and  the  three 
Beddingtons  and  Sydney  were  bending  over  Pete's  pros- 
trate form. 

"Is  he  dead?"  I  asked  in  a  horrified  whisper. 

"Lor*  bless  you  no,  miss,"  the  keeper  said  with  a 
laugh;  "vermin  such  as  him  ain't  so  easy  killed.  Leg 
broke,  I  think,  and  knocked  out  of  time  by  the  fall,  but 
nothing  else.  You  see  these  'ere  leaves  are  'most  like  a 
feather-bed  to  fall  on — a, foot  thick  if  they're  an  inch." 

"Poor  fellow!"  I  said,  looking  with  horrible  remorse 
at  a  swelling  on  the  left  side  of  his  head,  just  to  the  side 
of  the  eye.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him?" 

"Well,  we  must  just  leave  him  here  and  go  back  for  a 
hurdle  to  carry  him  on.  There  ain't  nothing  else  to  be 
done." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  eagerly;  "I'll  stay  with  him  while  you 
are  away." 

"Indeed,  you'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  Sydney  said 
with  a  short  laugh.  "You'll  just  come  straight  home 


THE   OLD   MANOR    HOUSE  247 

with  me  to  Elmhurst.  You've  done  quite  enough  for 
one  night,  and  I  don't  mean  letting  you  out  of  my  sight 
again." 

"But  you  can't  leave  him  here  all  alone?"  I  said. 

"Oh,  never  fear,  miss;  he  can't  get  away — leg's  broke 
right  enough,"  put  in  Tom  Beddington,  gravely. 

Sydney  and  I  both  laughed;  it  was  impossible  to 
help  it. 

"Yes,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  I  said.  "I  was 
thinking  how  horrible  it  was  leaving  him  all  alone  in  the 
wood  here  with  a  broken  leg." 

"Oh,  he'll  be  all  right,  miss,"  Tom  said,  cheerily, 
"we  shan't  be  long  gone.  Here,  you  two  beauties, 
march!" 

Old  Morris  and  Mike  rose  sulkily  to  their  feet,  and 
the  five  men  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  keeper's 
house. 

"Send  for  the  doctor  at  once!"  I  shouted  after  them. 

"All  right,  miss;  we'll  look  after  him,  never  fear!" 

Sydney  and  I  were  left  alone  with  the  fallen  man. 

"We  can't  leave  him  like  this,"  I  said,  "can  we,  Syd- 
ney?" 

"We  must,  little  girl,"  he  said.  "We  can't  do  the 
poor  chap  any  good,  and  the  Beddingtons  '11  be  back  in 
half  an  hour.  Besides,  I  must  get  home  soon,  or  I 
shan't  get  there  at  all." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  said. 

"Well,  I  think  I've  lost  a  good  deal  of  blood,  and 
I'm  beginning  to  feel  rather  weak." 

"Blood!"  I  cried.     "Then  he  did  stab  you?" 

"Yes,  he  struck  me  in  the  left  arm.  It's  nothing  to 
hurt,  but  it  bled  a  good  deal,  and  is  getting  very 
stiff." 


248  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"You  poor  darling!"  I  said.  "Let  me  bandage  it  up 
for  you." 

"No,  no,  I  daren't  touch  it  till  I  get  to  the  house. 
I've  stopped  the  bleeding  to  a  certain  extent  with  a 
handkerchief  tied  round,  and  we  had  best  leave  it  like 
that  for  the  present." 

"Come  on,  then!"  I  said;  "let's  get  to  your  house, 
quick!  Take  my  arm." 

He  laughed,  and  said  that  was  no  use,  but  that  if  he 
put  his  arm  round  my  neck  it  might  help  him  a  bit.  So, 
of  course,  I  had  to  agree,  poor  fellow!  and  we  went  the 
rest  of  the  way  like  that.  He  didn't  seem  so  very  bad 
after  all,  I  thought — at  least  as  far  as  spirits  went.  He 
really  seemed  to  enjoy  having  a  bad  arm. 

As  for  me,  considering  what  I  had  gone  through,  I 
was  extraordinarily  calm.  I  couldn't  understand  it  my- 
self. I  had  a  host  of  questions  to  ask  as  we  went  along — 
questions  about  the  fire,  and  old  Mrs.  Beddington,  and 
as  to  how  he  had  found  me,  and  any  number  of  other 
things.  And  of  course  he  had  plenty  to  ask  me. 

Mrs.  Beddington,  he  said,  was  dead — not  burnt,  or 
even  so  much  as  hurt,  but  dead — dead  of  fright  and  fail- 
ure of  the  heart.  Henry  Beddington  had  been  the  first 
to  take  the  alarm  about  the  fire,  and  he  was  in  time  to 
rush  upstairs  and  carry  out  his  mother  in  his  arms. 
Then  he  thought  of  me,  and  had  tried  to  get  in  again, 
but  it  was  an  utter  impossibility.  The  house  was  mostly 
of  wood,  and  very  old,  and  the  fire  had  spread  with 
extraordinary  quickness.  He  had  run  round  to  the  shed 
where  the  ladder  was  kept,  but  to  his  amazement  it  was 
gone.  After  hunting  about  for  a  minute  or  two,  he 
dashed  round  to  my  window,  and  there  found  the  missing 


THE   OLD    MANOR   HOUSE  249 

ladder,  my  window  wide  open,  and  sheets  of  flame  dart- 
ing out. 

That  was  all,  as  far  as  the  Beddingtons  were  con- 
cerned. Martha,  the  girl,  had  got  out  easily  enough. 
She  slept  beyond  the  kitchen,  on  the  ground  floor,  where 
the  fire  had  scarcely  reached. 

Sydney's  own  story  was  this:  He  had  been  on  the 
look-out  all  night,  fearing  he  scarcely  knew  what — but 
still  fearing  something.  He  had  slept  for  a  time  in  a 
chair,  and  then  feeling  uneasy,  had  wandered  out  in  the 
direction  of  the  Manor  House.  Before  he  had  been 
walking  five  minutes  he  noticed  the  red  glow  in  the  sky, 
and  fearing  the  truth,  ran  the  whole  distance  at  top 
speed,  and  arrived  just  as  the  roof  crashed  in.  It  was 
the  quickest  fire,  every  one  said,  that  had  ever  been 
seen;  the  wonder  was  that  any  one  escaped  at  all. 

Well,  Sydney  found  Henry  Beddington  bending  over 
the  body  of  his  mother,  and  from  him  learnt  that  I  had 
probably  escaped  by  the  ladder,  but  that  no  one  knew 
where  I  had  disappeared  to.  He  had  rushed  blindly 
down  the  track,  full  of  every  conceivable  terror,  but 
never  for  a  moment  thinking  of  Inversnaid;  why  should 
he  have?  And  then  suddenly  he  heard  my  screams,  and 
in  an  instant  knew  where  he  must  look  for  me.  The  rest, 
of  course,  I  knew. 

"Poor  old  Susan!"  I  said.     "What  a  horrible  thing!" 

"Yes,  but  it  might  have  been  worse,  of  course." 

"How?" 

"Well,  she  might  have  been  burnt,  poor  old  lady!  'As 
it  was,  let  us  hope  her  end  was  painless.  And  then,  you 
know,  it  might  have  been  you,  Joe." 

"Would  you  have  minded  so  very  much?"  I  asked. 


250  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Minded!"  he  said.  "My  God!  my  God!  don't  talk 
of  it!  You  don't  know  what  you  are  to  me,  Joe.  I 
wouldn't  give  a  brass  farthing  for  life  without  you!" 

I  felt  a  great  shudder  run  through  him,  and  I  was 
glad  to  feel  it. 

"You  old  darling!"  I  said. 

And  then  he  said  several  things  not  nearly  so  true, 
but  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  them  all  the  same.  And  I 
told  him  all  about  the  terrible  night  I  had  had,  and  asked 
him  if  my  hair  was  white. 

We  had  so  much  to  say  to  each  other  that  I  almost 
forgot  all  about  his  arm  till  we  got  to  Elmhurst,  and  he 
had  turned  the  lights  up  and  taken  his  coat  off,  and 
then  I  think  I  nearly  fainted,  for  his  sleeve  was  drenched 
in  blood  from  shoulder  to  wrist.  I  never  saw  anything 
like  it.  He  rang  all  the  servants  up,  and  made  them 
heat  some  water,  and  bring  up  some  food,  and  get  ready 
a  bed  for  me.  And  then  I  cut  off  his  sleeve  with  a  pair 
of  scissors  and  washed  away  the  part  that  was  sticking 
to  the  wound,  and  then  washed  the  wound  itself.  It  was 
a  horrid-looking  place,  with  black,  bulging  lips,  and  I 
am  afraid  I  must  have  hurt  him  dreadfully,  but  he  didn't 
seem  to  mind.  He  said  I  was  a  splendid  hospital  nurse, 
and  he  wouldn't  mind  being  stabbed  every  day  if  I  would 
only  be  his  doctor. 

I  don't  know  what  the  servants  thought.  I  saw  his 
man  staring  the  eyes  out  of  his  head,  and  the  old  house- 
maid looked  as  sour  as  vinegar.  I  suppose  she  thought 
it  all  dreadfully  improper. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

FROM    ELMHURST  TO   ASHBY 

T  BELIEVE  I  slept  till  nearly  twelve  next  morning. 
Anyhow  it  was  half-past  twelve  by  the  time  I  got 
down.  Sydney  was  out;  his  man — who  still  looked  at 
me  with  suspicion — said  he  had  started  about  ten  o'clock 
in  the  dog-cart,  but  had  left  no  message  as  to  when  he 
would  be  back.  So  I  sat  in  his  room,  and  looked  over 
all  his  things — regular  man's  things — pipes  and  sticks 
and  choppers,  fishing-rods  and  photographs  —  and  I 
thought  what  a  particularly  ugly,  dreary  room  it  was, 
and  of  how  I  should  have  altered  it  if  I  was  going  to 
live  there.  And  that  made  me  think,  of  course,  of  our 
marriage,  and  of  what  Sydney  had  settled  about  it.  We 
were  to  have  been  married,  of  course,  this  very  morning. 
Perhaps  that  was  what  he  had  gone  out  about.  I  won- 
dered. 

There  seemed  something  rather  horrible,  to  my  mind, 
in  getting  married  the  very  day  after  poor  old  Susan 
Beddington's  death;  still,  of  course,  if  Sydney  wished  it, 
I  would  do  it.  And  then  I  began  to  think  over,  one 
after  another,  all  the  events  of  the  night  before — that 
awful,  never-to-be-forgotten  night!  I  had  had  no  time 
to  think  till  then.  Events  had  chased  one  another  so 
quickly  that  thought  of  what  had  gone  before  had  been 
impossible.  But  now  I  sat  in  the  worn,  shabby  leather 
chair  by  the  fire  and  tried  to  think  it  all  out.  What  did 

251 


252  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

it  all  mean?  Had  the  fire  been  accidental,  or  had  it 
anything  to  do  with  those  Morrises?  And  then,  what 
were  the  Morrises  doing  there  at  all?  What  did  they 
want  with  me?  And  who  was  "the  governor"? 

The  whole  thing  seemed  to  me  now  like  a  nightmare; 
I  could  hardly  realise  that  it  had  all  actually  happened — 
that  I,  Josephine  de  Metrier,  had  gone  through  all  these 
things  only  a  few  hours  before.  I  got  up  and  looked  at 
myself  in  the  glass  over  the  chimney-piece.  There 
ought  to  have  been  some  extraordinary  change  in  my 
face;  it  ought  to  have  looked  old  and  drawn  and  hag- 
gard, but  it  did  not.  It  was  exactly  the  same  as  ever. 
I  felt  almost  ashamed  of  myself;  it  seemed  so  indecent 
and  unfeeling. 

And  then  I  thought  of  Pete — poor  Pete !  I  wondered 
how  he  was  getting  on  down  at  the  keeper's,  and  what 
they  had  done  with  the  other  two.  I  had  a  good  mind 
to  walk  down  and  see;  I  should  be  back  in  time  for 
luncheon.  The  only  thing  was  I  had  no  hat;  I  had 
come  away,  of  course,  without  one,  and  my  others  were 
all  at  Selworth.  However,  there  were  plenty  of  Syd- 
ney's— shooting-caps  of  all  sizes  and  shapes — and  I  took 
one  of  these,  doubled  it  up  behind,  and  pinned  it  on. 

It  did  splendidly. 

I  had  just  got  as  far  as  the  gate  when  I  met  Sydney 
himself,  driving  full  tilt  up  the  road. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  called  out,  "where  on  earth  are 
you  off  to?" 

"I  was  going  down  to  the  Beddingtons  to  see  after 
that  poor  man  with  the  broken  leg." 

"Good  Lord!"  he  said,  "are  you  mad?  Haven't  you 
had  enough  yet  of  Selworth  and  its  people?  Thank  good- 
ness, I  caught  you  in  time!" 


FROM   ELMHURST   TO   ASHBY  253 

"Why?"  I  said;  "what's  the  objection  to  going?" 

"Well,  if  you  don't  see,  it's  no  use  telling  you,"  he 
said.  "But  I  want  you  to  come  with  me  this  morning." 

"What?— to  get  married?" 

"Well,  no,"  he  said,  looking  rather  shamefaced. 
"The  fact  is,  Joe,  I  don't  think  we  had  better  get  mar- 
ried to-day,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Mind!"  I  cried.  "Good  gracious!  don't  think  / 
mind.  I  had  much  rather  not. " 

He  was  leaning  forward  in  the  dog-cart,  playing  with 
the  lash  of  the  whip.  He  didn't  look  at  me,  but 
answered  quite  quietly: 

"Of  course.  I  didn't  suppose  you  were  in  a  hurry; 
that's  why  I  thought  we  had  better  not.  I  am  in  a 
hurry,  but  there  are  several  reasons  why  I  think  it  had 
better  be  put  off  for  a  week  or  two." 

"A  month  or  two,  if  you  like,"  I  said. 

He  gave  me  one  quick,  enquiring  glance. 

"Joe,  dear,"  he  said,  gently,  "I  don't  like  it  at  all, 
but  I  think  perhaps  it  is  best." 

"Why?"  I  asked,  simply  for  curiosity.  "Last  even- 
ing you  wanted  to  get  married  to-day.  I  thought  it  was 
all  settled.  Not  that  /  care. ' ' 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "yesterday  I  thought  that  would  be 
best  for  you ;  now  I  think  the  other  will  be  best  for  you. " 

"All  right,"  I  said;  "then  perhaps  you  will  drive  me 
back  to  Selworth. " 

"God  forbid!"  he  answered.  "I  want  you  to  come 
with  me  to  Ashby.  I  have  just  been  there,  and  they 
will  be  delighted  to  have  you.  I  have  got  a  note  for  you 
from  the  Duchess." 

"But  I  have  got  no  clothes." 

"Oh,  that  will  be  all  right.     The  girls  will  lend  you 


254  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

any  amount  of  clothes.  Lady  Beatrice  is  just  about 
your  size,  I  should  think." 

I  stood  for  a  minute  in  doubt.  Of  course  it  was 
obviously  the  best  thing  to  be  done,  and  the  idea  of  a 
cheerful,  healthy  household  where  there  was  no  mystery 
appealed  to  me  strongly.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  I  was 
not  at  all  happy  about  clothes.  I  read  the  Duchess's 
note;  it  was  very  kind  and  pressing.  "You  positively 
must  come, "  she  wrote,  underlined  several  times. 

"All  right,"  I  said. 

"Then  jump  in!  You  have  left  nothing  behind,  have 
you?" 

"No;  but  the  cap,  Sydney!" 

"Oh,  the  cap's  all  right.  You  look  ripping  in  it. 
Jump  up!" 

I  did  jump  up,  and  Sydney  made  me  drive,  as  he  said 
he  was  not  very  safe  with  only  one  arm.  The  other  he  had 
in  a  sling.  It  seemed  he  had  already  been  to  the  doctor 
and  had  it  properly  looked  to. 

"You  have  been  energetic,"  I  said.  "And  I  am  only 
just  out  of  bed." 

"Did  they  give  you  breakfast  all  right?"  he  asked. 
"I  told  them  not  to  disturb  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  had  it  in  bed.  Sydney,  are  they  very 
terrible,  these  Ashby  people?  I  don't  know  any  of 
them,  you  see." 

"Not  a  bit;  they  are  as  jolly  as  possible.  You  will 
get  on  splendidly  with  them;  Lady  Beatrice  is  a  ripper!" 

"Is  she?"  I  said.  "You  seem  pretty  full  of  Lady 
Beatrice." 

"And  so  will  you  be  in  a  couple  of  days,  see  if  you're 
not,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"Sydney,"  I  said,  "I've  been  thinking  of  something." 


FROM   ELMHURST   TO   ASHBY  255 

"Of  me,  I  hope." 

"Of  you!  No,  not  likely,"  I  said.  "No;  I  have 
been  thinking  about  that  red  box.  Do  you  remember 
what  Mrs.  Beddington  said?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"She  said  that  the  moment  she  was  dead  we  were  to 
open  it." 

"I  remember.  I  have  been  thinking  about  it,  too. 
That  is  one  reason  why  I  thought  our  marriage  had  bet- 
ter be  put  off." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  thought  you  had  perhaps  better  see  what 
was  inside  first." 

"But  how  can  we  get  it?  You  know  it  is  in  the  secret 
staircase  out  of  my  room." 

"I  think  I  could  get  it,  if  I  only  knew  the  way  to  your 
room,  and  the  way  to  open  the  picture." 

"I  could  tell  you  how  to  open  the  picture,  but  you 
would  never  find  your  way  to  my  room.  It  is  rather 
complicated." 

"Then  you  will  have  to  come  and  show  me,"  he  said. 

"But,  good  gracious!  they  will  see  us.  You  know 
Norman  and  Father  Terence  are  in  the  house.  And 
besides,  all  the  doors  are  sure  to  be  locked." 

"Then,  we  must  break  in,"  he  said. 

"What,  at  night?" 

"Yes,  at  night." 

"Oh,  how  glorious!     But  do  you  think  we  can  do  it?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  I  am  rather  an  expert  burglar — 
not  professionally,  you  know,  but  in  an  amateur  kind  of 
way. ' ' 

"Shall  we  try  to-night,  Sydney?" 

"No,  certainly  not,  you  little  adventuress;  you  must 


256  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

have  at  least  one  good  night's  rest  first,  and  so  must  I, 
for  that  matter.  It'll  be  no  child's  play  when  we  do  try 
it." 

As  he  spoke  we  drove  through  the  Ashby  Lodge.  The 
park  was  not  nearly  so  big  as  Selworth,  but  very  pretty. 
The  house  was  big  and  modern,  ugly  and  comfortable. 
I  had  often  seen  it,  of  course,  from  the  outside,  as  one  of 
Uncle  Guy's  favourite  rides  had  been  through  the  park, 
but  the  inside  was  unknown  to  me.  The  Duke  never 
came  there  except  for  the  winter  months;  his  principal 
place  was  in  the  North. 

I  confess  to  feeling  very  uncomfortable  as  we  drove 
up  to  the  door.  I  was  unhappy  about  my  cap,  and  still 
more  unhappy  about  my  clothes  for  the  evening  and  for 
dinner.  I  had  absolutely  nothing  except  what  I  carried 
on  my  back.  However,  before  I  had  been  five  minutes 
in  the  house  I  felt  as  much  at  home  as  though  I  had 
lived  there  all  my  life.  Sydney  was  right;  Lady  Beatrice 
took  me  by  storm.  I  fell  in  love  with  her  from  the  first 
moment  that  she  caught  me  round  the  neck  and  gave 
me  a  loud,  smacking  kiss.  The  other  girls,  Mary  and 
Alice,  were  very  nice,  too,  and  the  Duchess  was  far 
from  formidable.  Poor  woman!  she  was  still  in  the 
deepest  mourning  for  her  husband,  of  course. 

I  need  not  have  worried  myself  about  dresses.  The 
girls  simply  piled  up  my  room  with  things.  They  kept 
coming  in,  one  after  the  other,  panting  under  enormous 
armfuls  of  clothes,  which  they  flung  in  heaps  on  the  bed 
and  sofa.  Each  one  wanted  me,  of  course,  to  wear  her 
own  particular  things,  and  I  got  perfectly  bewildered  in 
trying  to  divide  my  choice  equally.  After  tea  they  all 
came  up  to  my  room,  and  made  me  try  on  things  till  din- 
ner time,  dancing  round  me  and  clapping  their  hands, 


FROM    ELMHURST    TO    ASHBY  257 

and  pulling  me  about,  and  all  talking  at  once  and  at  the 
top  of  their  voices.  They  were  extraordinarily  gushing 
kind  of  girls,  never  out  of  temper  or  spirits,  and  what 
Sydney  called  always  working  in  triplets — that  is  to  say, 
what  one  did  the  other  two  did  as  well.  If  one  came  to 
my  room,  they  all  three  came.  One  hardly  ever  saw 
them  singly. 

I  was  half  dead  by  dinner  time,  but  they  all  said  I 
looked  all  right  in  a  white  dress  of  Beatrice's.  I  think 
it  did  suit  me  pretty  well.  The  Duke  took  me  in  to  din- 
ner, as  I  was  the  only  stranger.  I  had  never  seen  him 
before,  but  had  always  hated  him  ever  since  I  had  heard 
he  had  turned  Sydney  off.  However,  he  was  pleasant 
enough  to  talk  to — rather  a  good-looking  man.  I  talked 
to  him  a  great  deal  about  Sophie,  to  try  and  find  out  if 
he  was  in  love  with  her,  but  he  was  distinctly  disappoint- 
ing. I  don't  believe  he  was. 

"Isn't  she  lovely?'  I  said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  lightly;  "very  nice  looking, 
perhaps  a  little  too  like  a  Paris  fashion-plate." 

"I  think  it's  horrid  of  you  to  say  that,"  I  said.  "I 
think  she's  the  prettiest  girl  I've  ever  seen." 

"Yes,  but  then  you  haven't  the  advantage  that  1 
have,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"What's  that?" 

"Well,  I've  seen  some  one  that  you  never  have — 
except  perhaps  inverted." 

"I  don't  know  the  least  what  you  mean,  but  I'm  quite 
sure  you've  never  seen  any  one  prettier  than  Sophie." 

"And  I'm  quite  sure  I  have." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  "we  won't  fight  over  it;  but  I 
think  you've  very  bad  taste." 

I  was  bitterly  disappointed.     Here  was  a  plain  end  of 


258  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

poor  Sophie's  chance  of  being  a  Duchess.  I  wondered 
who  the  other  girl  was.  I  felt  sure  she  was  a  pig,  who- 
ever she  was. 

After  dinner  I  asked  Beatrice  if  the  Duke  was  in  love 
with  any  one.  They  were  all  three  in  my  pocket,  of 
course,  and  they  all  three  went  into  fits  of  laughter. 

"Not  that  we  know  of,"  they  cried  in  chorus. 
"There's  a  chance  for  you,  if  you  like  to  try.  I  think 
he  seemed  rather  taken  with  you  at  dinner." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said,  coldly,  "but  I'm  engaged 
already." 

"Engaged!"  they  shouted  out.  "Who  to?  Tell  us 
all  about  it." 

I  was  sorry  I  had  spoken,  then,  but  there  was  no 
help  for  it. 

"I  am  engaged  to  Sydney  Grayle, "  I  said. 

"To  Sydney!"  they  cried.  "Goodness  gracious! 
Think  of  that!" 

And  then  they  all  must  needs  kiss  me,  and  wish  me 
all  manner  of  joy,  and  descant  for  twenty  minutes  on 
Sydney's  innumerable  virtues  and  graces. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  Sydney  and  the  Duke  came 
into  the  room,  whereupon  they  all  three  set  up  a  howl  of 
congratulation,  and  charged  him  in  line. 

"Sydney!"  they  cried,  "why  didn't  you  tell  us  of  your 
engagement?" 

"Engagement!"  he  said.      "What  engagement?" 

"Good  gracious!"  Beatrice  said,  "the  man  talks  as  if 
he  had  a  dozen.  Why,  your  engagement  to  Miss  de 
Metrier,  of  course." 

I  saw  his  face  contract  with  a  quick  little  frown. 

"Because,"  he  said,  "I  have  not  the  privilege  of 
being  engaged  to  Miss  de  Metrier." 


FROM    ELMHURST   TO   ASHBY  259 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have!  she  has  told  us  all  about  it," 
said  the  chorus. 

Sydney  turned  away,  and  began  talking  to  the 
Duchess  about  something.  The  girls,  seeing  that  some- 
thing was  wrong,  stopped  short  with  blank  faces;  and  as 
for  me,  I  felt  ready  to  sink  into  the  floor  with  shame  and 
anger.  What  did  he  mean? 

Beatrice,  with  ready  tact,  changed  the  conversation, 
and  began  asking  me  about  the  fire,  and  my  adventures 
of  the  night  before.  I  was  quite  a  heroine  in  a  small 
way,  but  of  course  nothing  was  known  by  the  world  in 
general  of  the  real  facts.  All  they  knew  was  that  a  fire 
had  broken  out  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  that  I 
had  escaped  by  a  ladder  providentially  found  under  my 
window.  Sydney  was  very  reticent  about  his  part  of 
the  business,  and  the  wound  in  his  arm.  His  story  was 
that  he  had  seen  the  fire,  and  was  hurrying  through  the 
woods  to  see  if  he  could  be  of  any  help,  when  he  fell  in 
with  some  poachers,  who  wounded  him  in  the  arm.  One 
of  the  poachers  seemed  to  have  fallen  from  a  tree  and 
broken  his  leg — presumably  in  attempting  to  noose 
roosting  pheasants — and  the  others  he  was  able  to 
defend  himself  against,  till  the  keepers  came  up  and 
captured  the  whole  three. 

"Then  where  did  you  find  Miss  de  Metrier?"  the 
Duchess  had  asked. 

"Oh,  I  found  her  wandering  about,  homeless  and 
houseless,  in  the  woods,"  Sydney  said,  laughing. 

"But  I  don't  understand  what  Miss  de  Metrier  was 
doing  in  the  woods;  was  she  poaching,  too?" 

The  Duchess  looked  at  me  with  puzzled  eyes. 

"No,  not  poaching.     I  suppose  she  was  scared  by  the 


260  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

fire,  and  her  own  narrow  escape  and  had  run  away  from 
the  very  sight  of  the  blazing  house." 

I  said  nothing.  I  was  a  bad  hand  at  lying;  and  it 
struck  me  Sydney  was  not  much  better.  The  Duchess 
did  not  look  completely  satisfied  with  Sydney's  explana- 
tion; it  would  have  been  odd  if  she  had  been.  But  I 
imagine  she  thought  the  mystery  was  connected  in  some 
way  or  other  with  our  love  affairs,  and  discreetly  forbore 
to  press  us  further. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

A   DEEP   LAID   PLOT 

T  SLEPT  that  night  as  I  had  never  slept  before — 
•*•  nine  hours  or  so  straight  on  end.  They  all  wanted 
me  to  have  breakfast  in  bed,  but  that  was  a  thing  I 
hated  beyond  anything,  and,  besides  it  was  absurd  after 
sleeping  all  that  while.  So  I  came  down  to  half-past 
nine  breakfast,  and  found  two  letters  waiting  for  me  on 
the  big  marble  table  in  the  hall — one  from  Uncle  Guy 
and  the  other  from  Aunt  Harriet.  I  also  noticed  a  let- 
ter in  Uncle  Guy's  writing  addressed  to  "The  Honour- 
able Sydney  Grayle."  What  did  he  want  with  him,  I 
wondered?  I  opened  my  uncle's  letter  first,  and  read 
it  standing  by  the  window. 

"Mv  DEAREST  LITTLE  JOE,"  it  began,  "I  cannot  say  how 
thankful  I  am  to  have  heard  of  your  merciful  escape  from  that 
dreadful  fire  at  the  old  Manor  House.  What  a  horrible  thing  it 
was!  It  has  upset  us  all  here  dreadfully,  especially  poor  old  Mrs. 
Beddington's  death.  However,  one  must  be  thankful  after  all  that 
the  poor  old  lady  was  not  burnt.  That  old  house  was  such  a  regu- 
lar tinder-box,  it  is  a  wonder  any  one  had  time  to  get  out.  We  are 
all  so  delighted  to  hear  you  have  found  an  asylum  at  Ashby. 
They  are  very  nice  people,  and  I  think  you  will  like  them.  They 
will,  of  course,  let  you  stay  there  till  we  come  back,  which  will 
probably  be  in  about  a  fortnight,  but  our  plans  are  still  a  little  un- 
certain. Of  course,  we  should  have  been  delighted  for  you  to  have 
gone  to  Selworth,  only,  as  Norman  is  the  only  person  in  the  house, 
of  course  it  is  impossible  at  present.  He  was  determined  to  go 
back  to  see  after  some  alterations  to  his  rooms.  However,  it  will 

261 


262  THE    PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

be  much  livelier  and  nicer  for  you  at  Ashby  just  now.  When  we 
get  back  to  Selworth,  of  course  we  shall  claim  you  at  once,  and 
you  will  have  to  stay  with  us  until  we  go  up  to  town  for  the  season. 
"Write  me  a  line  to  say  you  are  none  the  worse  for  your  terri- 
ble experience.  We  are  all  so  anxious  to  hear  from  you.  Ever 
your  affectionate  old  uncle, 

"  Guv  DE  METRIER." 

Aunt  Harriet's  letter  was  much  in  the  same  strain, 
only  longer.  She  hoped  I  was  not  terribly  effarouchle 
by  the  shocking  catastrophe  of  the  Manor  House ;  and  I 
must  remember  that  Selworth  would  always  be  my  home 
for  as  long  as  I  liked  to  stay.  Sophie  sent  her  best 
love.  It  was  a  nice,  kind  letter. 

Just  as  I  finished  reading  it,  the  Duke  came  down. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said.  "I  see  you  are  first 
down,  after  all.  Those  sisters  of  mine  are  the  laziest 
girls  in  the  world;  they  never  can  get  out  of  bed.  Come 
in  and  have  some  breakfast." 

We  had  finished  our  breakfast  before  they  came 
down.  They  came  in,  all  three  together,  of  course,  and 
talking  loudly.  There  was  five  minutes'  kissing,  and  a 
host  of  enquiries  after  my  health,  which  really  was  not 
in  need  of  any  enquiries,  before  they  finally  settled  down 
to  their  breakfast.  The  Duke  walked  out  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  He  said  all  this  cackling  was  bad  for  his 
digestion.  Beatrice  hit  him  on  the  back  of  the  head 
with  a  roll  as  he  was  disappearing  through  the  door,  but 
he  took  no  notice,  and  stalked  out  with  dignity. 

"What  shall  we  do  to-day?"  they  all  said  at  once, 
bouncing  up  in  their  chairs. 

I  didn't  want  to  do  anything.  I  wanted  to  wait 
about  till  Sydney  came,  as  I  knew  he  would  do  some 
time  in  the  course  of  the  morning.  I  had  told  him  the 
day  before  he  positively  must  go  down  and  make 


A   DEEP   LAID    PLOT  263 

enquiries  about  that  poor  Morris  boy  with  the  broken 
leg,  and  I  knew  he  would  come  up  to  report. 

I  told  them  I  was  tired,  and  would  like  to  keep  quiet, 
and  sit  about  and  read. 

"Of  course,"  they  said.  "How  stupid  of  us!  You 
must  be  dead!  We'll  all  sit  and  read." 

And  then  came  a  chorus  of  questions.  Had  I  read 
this?  And  had  I  read  that?  And  did  I  care  for  Anthony 
Trollope's  books?  They  did  not.  And  had  I  read 
"Misunderstood,"  by  Florence  Montgomery?  Such  a 
love  of  a  book!  It  would  be  sure  to  make  me  cry. 

I  said  I  had  read  hardly  anything,  and  was  a  miserably 
ignorant  person  in  every  way,  but  thought  I  liked  Ernest 
Grizet's  books  better  than  any  others,  which  they 
thought  an  extraordinary  good  joke.  They  laughed 
for  about  five  minutes. 

"What? — the  'Hatchet  Throwers'?"  they  said,  "and 
'Bear  Island'?  and  those  other  ridiculous  books?  You 
don't  mean  to  say  you  like  them?  We  like  sentimental 
books." 

I  said  I  was  afraid  I  did  not,  which  they  seemed  to 
think  extraordinary. 

'  'We  love  them ! ' '  they  said ;  "Italian  stories  especially, 
about  Venice  and  Naples." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  I  said.  "Silly  things  out  of  Forget- 
me-not,  where  people  are  called  Beppo  and  Giacomo  and 
Guiseppina,  and  other  ridiculous  names." 

They  laughed  loudly. 

"We  will  give  you  'The  Settlers  at  Home',"  they 
said.  "You  will  like  that." 

Then,  flying  off  at  a  tangent,    "Did  I  sing?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  did  not  sing,  or  play,  either.  I  had 
no  accomplishments,  and  was  very  uneducated." 


264  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

They  all  sang  a  little.  Would  I  like  to  hear  them? 
Yes?  Come  along,  then,  we  would  go  to  their  own  sit- 
ting-room, where  there  was  no  one  to  hear.  John  hated 
music. 

I  don't  think  any  of  them  sang  very  well,  but  they 
seemed  to  enjoy  it.  They  sang  a  number  of  Italian 
songs,  which  I  neither  understood  nor  cared  for. 
Didn't  I  like  Italian  songs?  Oh,  well,  they  knew  plenty 
of  English  ones.  They  sang  "Clochette"  and  "A 
Bridge  of  Fancies,"  and  then  Alice  and  Beatrice  sang  a 
duet  called  "Wilt  Thou  Tempt  the  Waves  with  Me?" — 
a  thing  that  began  like  a  funeral  march,  and  ended  like 
a  jig.  And  lastly  Mary  sang  "The  Bridge,"  which  I 
liked  better  than  any  of  them,  and  made  her  sing  again. 

They  were  really  very  nice  girls,  but  there  was  no 
getting  rid  of  them.  They  stuck  to  me  like  leeches.  I 
think  they  had  taken  a  fancy  to  me,  for  they  never  left 
me  alone  for  a  minute,  and  never  stopped  talking  to  me, 
even  when  I  was  reading. 

I  said  I  thought  I  would  go  outside  and  stroll  about, 
and  of  course  they  said  they  would  come  too.  I  went 
straight  out  of  the  door  without  a  hat,  and  in  my  thin 
house-shoes;  I  thought  they  might  go  and  change  theirs, 
but  not  a  bit  of  it.  They  pursued  me  just  the  same — 
hatless  and  shoeless. 

I  must  really  come  to  the  stables,  they  said,  and  see 
the  horses — such  darlings!  We  must  have  a  ride  in  the 
afternoon.  Molly  would  carry  me  splendidly.  So  we 
went  and  used  up  at  least  a  bushel  of  carrots,  which  a 
helper,  walking  behind  us,  carried  in  a  basket.  And 
then,  when  we  had  patted  the  last  smooth,  glossy  neck, 
we  strolled  back  again  towards  the  front. 

I  saw  Sydney  walking  up  and  down  with  the  Duke;  I 


A    DEEP    LAID    PLOT  265 

supposed  they  were  talking  business.  Beatrice  and  the 
other  two  waved  good-morning  to  him  as  we  passed,  and 
I  looked  the  other  way,  and  pretended  to  be  examining 
the  front  of  the  house.  I  had  no  idea  of  making  him 
too  happy  after  the  way  he  had  talked  the  night  before. 
If  he  wanted  to  see  me,  he  could  come  in  and  find  me  in 
the  drawing-room.  If  he  did  not  come,  I  never  wanted 
to  speak  to  him  again. 

He  did  come,  after  we  had  been  there  about  five 
minutes,  and  shook  hands  with  the  other  girls.  I  pre- 
tended to  be  very  much  interested  in  my  book.  Pres- 
ently he  walked  straight  up  to  me,  and  said,  "Can  I 
speak  to  you  for  a  minute?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  I  said,  looking  up,  and  laying  the 
book  face  downwards  on  my  knee. 

"I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  outside,  if  possible." 

"Is  that  necessary?  Surely  we  can  say  what  we  have 
to  say  here.  I  have  only  thin  shoes  on." 

"We  can  walk  on  the  gravel,"  he  said.  "I  should 
be  very  glad  if  you  could  manage  to  come." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  I  said,  jumping  up.  "Come  on, 
and  let's  get  it  over." 

He  followed  me  out  in  silence.  We  walked  down  the 
gravel  road  for  about  a  hundred  yards,  and  then  he  said, 
"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  that  red  box." 

"Yes?" 

"I  think  we  ought  to  get  possession  of  it  without  delay. ' ' 

"Why  do  you  think  so?"  I  asked,  contradictiously. 
Of  course  I  knew  quite  well. 

"Because  Mrs.  Beddington's  strict  injunctions  were 
to  open  the  box  and  read  the  contents  the  moment  she 
was  dead.  She  was  not  the  kind  of  woman  to  say  that 
without  a  very  good  reason." 


266  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"It  can't  possibly  affect  her  now." 

"How  do  we  know?  It  may  very  easily  affect  her 
family." 

"Well,  how  are  we  to  get  hold  of  it?"  I  asked,  sulk- 
ily. His  manner  annoyed  me;  he  talked  to  me  as  if  I 
were  a  stranger,  and  I  noticed  he  never  once  called  me 
by  my  name. 

"I  thought  if  you  were  not  too  tired,  we  might  go 
to-night  and  get  it." 

"What!  before  dinner?" 

"No,  in  the  middle  of  the  night — do  a  little  midnight 
house-breaking,  in  fact." 

"Do  you  think  we  could  get  in?"  I  asked,  forgetting 
for  the  moment  my  wounded  pride  in  the  excitement  of 
the  idea. 

"I  have  very  little  doubt  of  it,"  he  said.  "I  am 
rather  good  at  that  sort  of  thing." 

"I  must  say  I  should  like  to  see  what's  inside  that 
mysterious  box,"  I  said,  doubtfully.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  was  mad  with  curiosity  to  open  it. 

"Well,  look  here,"  he  said,  "I'll  come  up  here  at  one 
o'clock  to-night.  There's  a  little  room  on  the  ground 
floor,  at  the  end  of  the  house,  that  you  could  get  out  of 
easily  enough.  I'll  show  it  you  now.  It  will  take  us 
about  an  hour  and  a  half  to  walk  to  Selworth;  then  I 
calculate  about  an  hour  to  get  into  the  house  and  get 
the  box,  and  another  hour  and  a  half  back.  That  will 
get  you  here  by  five  o'clock.  It  will  be  very  hard  work, 
I  am  afraid." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  that,"  I  said.  "I'll  come — of 
course  I  will." 

"Here's  the  window,"  he  said,  pointing  it  out  to  me. 
"You  see,  there's  no  difficulty  about  getting  out  or  in 


A   DEEP   LAID   PLOT  267 

again.  I  only  wish  we  had  as  easy  a  job  before  us  at 
Selworth." 

"Yes,  this  part  of  it  will  be  simple  enough,"  I  agreed. 

"They  will  all  be  in  bed  by  one  o'clock,  and  you  can 
slip  downstairs,  with  your  shoes  in  your  hand,  and  let 
yourself  out.  I  will  be  waiting  just  outside." 

"Oh!  won't  it  be  splendid?"  I  cried;  "a  real,  genu- 
ine burglary!" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile,  "it  will  be  very 
splendid." 

I  thought  he  was  looking  ill  and  rather  miserable. 
I  suspected  it  must  be  at  the  idea  of  leaving  Ashby  and 
going  out  to  America.  Perhaps  the  Duke  had  been 
disagreeable  to  him  that  morning,  or  perhaps  it  was  his 
poor  arm.  I  felt  a  great  wave  of  pity,  and  perhaps 
something  more  came  over  me,  and  without  thinking,  I 
forgot  all  my  pride,  and  just  blurted  out  what  was  in  my 
mind. 

"Why  did  you  say  we  were  not  engaged  last  night?" 

"Because,"  he  said,  "I  was  not  sure  that  you  knew 
your  own  mind.  What  right  has  a  penniless  beggar  like 
me  to  be  engaged  to  any  girl?" 

"So  you  want  to  be  off  with  it?"  I  said,  coldly. 
"Enough  for  one,  but  not  enough  for  two;  I  suppose 
that's  the  idea. " 

"I  know  very  well  there's  not  half  enough  for  one," 
he  said,  laughing  rather  bitterly. 

"Oh,  I  see!     So  I  should  only  be  in  the  way?" 

"What  nonsense!"  he  said,  angrily.  "Can't  you 
understand  that  I'm  thinking  of  you,  and  not  of  myself?" 

"Some  people  are  altogether  too  considerate,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

Sydney  got  very  red,  and  I  thought  for  a  moment  he 


268  THE    PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

was  going  to  lose  his  temper,  but  he  recovered  himself 
and  said,  quietly: 

"I  want  you  to  make  me  a  promise." 

"Yes?"  I  said. 

"Will  you  think  the  whole  thing  well  over,  and  write 
to  me  after  luncheon  to-morrow,  and  say  whether  you 
really  wish  our  engagement  to  hold  good  or  not?" 

"I  could  tell  you  that  much  now,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  but  I  want  you  to  think  it  well  over  in  the 
meanwhile.  It  is  only  a  fad  of  mine,  of  course,  but  I 
should  like  you  to  do  it  if  you  would." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  laughing,  "if  it  amuses  you,  I'll 
do  it,  of  course." 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  gravely;  "then  that's  settled. 
And  so  is  the  other  matter  about  the  box,  I  think.  You 
quite  understand?  One  o'clock  outside  this  window." 

"Yes,  I  quite  understand." 

"Good-bye,  then,  I  must  be  off." 

He  turned  and  walked  quickly  away  without  once 
looking  back.  I  stared  after  him  in  amazement.  What 
was  the  matter  with  him?  Why  was  he  so  different? — 
so  grave  and  solemn  and  generally  disagreeable?  Was 
it  possible  that  he  was  jealous  of  the  Duke?  If  so,  I 
would  have  some  fun  with  him  when  he  next  came  to 
luncheon  or  dinner;  that  I  would.  I  would  pay  him  out 
for  being  so  high  and  mighty. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  DARING   BURGLARY 

T  THOUGHT  that  day  would  never  pass.  I  was  half 
•*•  wild  with  excitement  and  expectation.  But  in  the 
end  dinner  was  over,  and  the  dreary  talkee-talkee  that 
followed,  and  the  girls  had  at  last  consented  to  leave 
my  bedroom,  and  I  was  alone. 

I  sat  in  a  pink  wrapper  of  Mary's,  with  my  feet  be- 
fore the  fire,  and  thought.  It  was  just  twelve,  and  in 
an  hour  the  time  would  have  come.  I  got  up,  and 
shook  myself,  and  began  to  dress.  I  had  worn  Alice's 
house-shoes  all  day,  so  that  my  own  thick  ones  shouldn't 
be  taken  down  to  be  cleaned.  Of  course,  I  had  about 
ten  pairs  belonging  to  the  other  girls,  but  they  didn't  fit 
the  same  as  my  own,  and  I  hardly  fancied  a  ten-mile 
walk  in  any  of  them. 

At  ten  minutes  to  one  I  took  my  shoes  in  one  hand 
and  a  bedroom  candle  in  the  other,  and  began  creeping 
down  the  passage.  It  would  be  an  awful  thing,  I 
thought,  if  any  one  popped  out  and  caught  me,  for  I  was 
dressed  in  my  own  day  frock,  and  the  shoes  in  the  hand 
had  a  distinctly  criminal  look.  However,  nothing  so 
appalling  happened.  I  got  safely  down  to  the  little 
unused  room,  unfastened  the  shutters,  threw  up  the 
window,  and  looked  out. 

It  was  a  fine  night,  still  and  dry,  but  darkish.  The 
moon  had  shrunk  away  to  nothing,  and  was  hidden  for 

269 


270  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

the  most  part  behind  thick  clouds.  I  heard  the  stable 
clock  strike  one,  and  sat  down  to  put  on  my  shoes.  At 
the  same  moment  there  came  a  low  whistle  from  the 
bushes  opposite.  I  blew  out  the  candle,  and  swung  my- 
self lightly  down. 

"You  are  wonderfully  punctual,"  Sydney  said,  emerg- 
ing from  the  darkness. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  laughing,  "and  so  are  you.  I 
wasn't  quite  sure  that  you  would  come  at  all.  Men 
don't,  you  know,  sometimes." 

"Well,  now  we  are  here,  we  had  better  get  on,"  he 
said,  prosaically.  "We  shall  have  to  step  out,  you 
know,  if  you  are  to  be  back  by  five.  You  had  better 
follow  me.  I  know  all  the  short  cuts." 

He  turned  and  strode  away  down  the  walk.  I  felt 
more  chilled  and  mortified  than  I  can  say.  What  kind 
of  a  lover  was  this,  who  could  not  even  take  the  trouble 
to  shake  hands?  What  about  all  our  vows  of  everlasting 
love  and  constancy?  and  all  his  protestations  of  passion- 
ate affection?  Here  was  a  mere  practical  business  man 
on  a  practical  business  undertaking — a  man  who,  under 
conditions  that  tended  in  quite  an  opposite  direction, 
talked  to  me  as  a  lawyer  might  to  a  judge! 

However,  there  was  no  use  in  worrying  one's  self  over 
causes,  so  I  resigned  myself  sulkily  to  the  effect,  and 
followed  dumbly  at  his  heels.  We  walked  at  a  good 
four  miles  an  hour,  and  in  absolute  silence.  Under  the 
park  wall  Sydney  stopped  to  pick  up  a  bag  and  a 
lantern. 

"Can  you  manage  the  lantern?"  he  asked.  "You  see 
I  have  only  one  arm." 

"Of  course  I  can,"  I  said;  after  which  silence  reigned 
once  more. 


A    DARING   BURGLARY  271 

He  had  a  key  that  let  us  through  a  little  wooden  gate 
in  the  wall,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  the  high  road. 

The  way  into  Selworth  was  not  quite  so  simple,  but 
there  was  no  great  difficulty  even  about  that.  The  park 
wall  ends,  for  some  reason,  at  the  Slade  Lodge;  I  sup- 
pose because  the  high  road  turns  off  at  right  angles  there 
and  ceases  skirting  the  wall.  The  whole  way  from  the 
Greystoke  Lodge  to  the  Slade  Lodge  the  road  runs  just 
outside  the  wall,  but  at  the  Slade  Lodge  it  turns  sharp 
off  towards  Hexham,  and  beyond  is  nothing  but  a  big 
cover  bounded  by  a  hedge.  We  scrambled  through  this 
hedge,  and  at  the  end  of  a  narrow  ride,  over  another, 
and  we  were  in  the  park.  Then  came  a  three-mile  tramp 
through  the  Flexham  Woods  and  across  the  Plain.  It 
was  dreary  work.  Sydney's  extraordinary  surliness  took 
all  the  life  and  excitement  out  of  what  we  were  doing; 
otherwise,  I  should  have  wished  for  nothing  better.  We 
just  tramped  along  side  by  side  in  silence,  I  swinging  my 
lantern  and  he  his  bag. 

When  we  got  to  the  road,  we  bore  away  a  little  to 
the  right.  Sydney,  of  course,  with  his  wounded  arm, 
was  not  up  to  climbing  the  balustrade,  so  we  had  to  go 
round  by  the  gate.  There  is  a  little  path  running 
through  the  belt,  that  lets  one  into  the  garden  by  a  small 
iron  gate.  It  is  a  gate  that  squeaks  cheerfully  on  its 
hinges,  and  swings  to  with  a  prolonged  rattle  of  the 
latch.  However,  on  this  occasion  we  suppressed  the 
rattle,  though  the  hinge  squeaked  bravely,  giving  out 
the  little  tune  I  had  heard  such  scores  of  times  from  my 
window.  I  loved  that  little  tune;  it  made  me  feel  at 
home  at  once,  and  does  still. 

We  marched  up  the  gravel  path  straight  for  the  little 
glass  door  at  the  foot  of  the  turret  stairs.  The  house 


272  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

loomed  up  huge  and  black  before  us.  Not  a  glimmer  of 
light  showed  anywhere;  not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness 
of  the  night.  For  some  extraordinary  reason  the  mo- 
ment we  were  in  the  garden  Sydney  became  more  like 
his  old  self.  I  suppose  the  excitement  of  housebreaking 
made  him  forget  the  part  he  was  playing — for  of  course 
he  was  playing  a  part,  I  knew  that.  Anyhow,  he  be- 
came a  different  being,  brisk,  animated,  and  strange  to 
say,  cheerful.  I  even  heard  him  whistling  softly  to  him- 
self. 

"You  are  sure  nobody  sleeps  this  side?"  he  said. 

"Certain;  these  are  all  visitors'  rooms." 

"That  old  priest  doesn't  sleep  here?" 

"Oh,  no;  he  sleeps  miles  away,  at  the  other  end  of 
the  house.  Of  course  Norman's  room  is  not  far  off,  but 
then  his  window  looks  out  to  the  front." 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said;  "he  won't  bother  us." 

At  the  door  we  stopped.  Sydney  lit  the  lantern  and 
began  rummaging  about  in  his  bag.  I  looked  on  with 
interest,  and  an  insane  desire  to  help.  He  produced  a 
thing  like  an  ordinary  pencil,  with  which  he  cut  quickly 
round  one  of  the  middle  panes  of  glass.  It  made  a 
harsh,  grating  sound,  and  I  guessed  there  was  a  dia- 
mond in  it.  Twice  he  followed  the  same  lines,  and 
then  with  his  one  hand  in  a  thick  hedger's  glove  smeared 
with  putty,  pushed  in  the  bottom  of  the  pane  and  brought 
the  whole  thing  out  on  the  palm  of  his  hand.  It  was 
the  neatest  thing  ever  seen. 

"I  believe  you  are  a  professional  burglar,"  I  whis- 
pered. 

"I  should  like  to  be,"  he  said,  laughing.  "Don't  I 
do  it  well'1" 

He  put  in   his  hand,  unbolted  the  window,  and  told 


A    DARING   BURGLARY  273 

me  to  open  it  quietly.  When  the  window  was  up,  the 
little  wooden  door  at  the  bottom,  of  course,  opened  easily 
enough.  We  were  now  face  to  face  with  the  shutters. 

Sydney  produced  a  hand-drill,  and  told  me  to  bore 
little  holes  in  a  circle  as  high  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
shutter  as  I  could  reach.  Of  course  he  couldn't  manage 
it  with  his  one  hand.  It  was  horribly  tiring  work — the 
stretching  up  made  it  so  bad — and  I  had  to  stop  and 
rest  half  a  dozen  times.  But  at  last  the  circle  was  made, 
and  he  pulled  out  a  very  thin  little  saw,  and  began  saw- 
ing from  one  hole  to  the  other.  After  the  first  start  off, 
this  was  easy  enough,  and  in  five  minutes  he  had  a  neat 
little  hole  in  the  middle  of  the  shutter.  His  first  care 
was  to  put  his  hand  through  and  bring  out  the  bell, 
held  firmly  by  the  tongue. 

' 'That's  a  good  job  over,"  he  said  with  a  sigh;  "now 
for  the  bar.  We  must  cut  another  hole  in  the  left-hand 
bottom  corner." 

So  I  knelt  down  and  set  to  work  again.  This  was 
ever  so  much  easier  than  the  first  hole,  as  it  was  far 
more  get-at-able;  besides,  I  was  getting  more  used  to 
the  instrument.  We  had  another  hole  cut  in  no  time. 

"Now,"  said  Sydney,  "you  put  your  left  hand  through 
the  middle  hole,  and  keep  the  bar  from  swinging,  while 
I  undo  the  fastening." 

I  had  to  stand  on  tip-toe  to  do  this,  and  held  the  bar 
till  I  felt  the  weight  of  it  fall  upon  my  hand.  Then  I 
stretched  my  wrist  through,  and  kept  my  hold  of  it  till  it 
got  beyond  my  reach,  when  I  let  it  go,  and  it  dropped 
against  the  wall  with  a  sullen  clang.  The  shutters 
swung  open,  and  we  were  inside  the  house! 

"Not  bad  for  an  amateur  burglar?"  Sydney  whis- 
pered. 


274  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"I  should  think  not,"  I  said.  "Shall  I  take  the  lan- 
tern?" 

"Yes,  take  the  lantern.  We  will  leave  the  bag  till  we 
come  back." 

My  heart  was  thumping  like  a  steam-engine,  and  I 
felt  an  insane  desire  to  laugh,  but  fortunately  suppressed 
it.  Sydney  was  very  serious. 

I  led  the  way — the  way  I  had  travelled  such  scores  of 
times  before — up  the  turret  stairs,  through  the  swing 
door  at  the  top,  and  along  the  stone  passage  till  we  came 
to  my  own  special  staircase,  the  staircase  that  leads  to 
nowhere  except  the  panelled  room. 

The  door  was  locked,  but  the  key  was  on  the  outside. 
This  we  soon  altered,  changing  it  to  the  inside,  and  lock- 
ing the  door  again. 

"It  is  just  as  well  to  be  prepared  for  a  siege,  if  neces- 
sary," Sydney  remarked.  "We  should,  anyhow,  have 
time  to  master  the  contents  of  the  box  before  they  could 
force  the  door." 

My  poor  old  room  looked  most  dejected  and  bare, 
with  its  dust-sheet  coverings  and  recumbent  jugs.  It 
smelt  stuffy  and  airless,  too,  with  the  airlessness  of  days. 

I  turned  the  lantern  on  to  Maurice,  to  see  what  he 
thought  of  our  enterprise,  but  there  was  no  reading  those 
features.  The  curled  lip  and  supercilious  eye  might 
mean  either  pity,  scorn,  or  defiance. 

"Hadn't  you  better  get  the  box?"  Sydney  suggested, 
mildly.  "We  are  behind  time  as  it  is." 

"I  must  take  the  lantern,"  I  said.  "Have  you  got  a 
candle?" 

"No,  but  it  doesn't  matter;  you  can  leave  me  in  the 
dark;  I  am  not  nervous." 

I  climbed  on  to  the  chimney-piece  in  the  old  way,  with 


A   DARING   BURGLARY  275 

the  chair,  and  swung  Maurice  back  into  the  room. 
Then,  picking  up  the  lantern,  I  crept  quietly  up. 

The  place  where  I  had  put  the  box  was  nearer  the  top 
than  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  It  was,  as  may  be 
remembered,  a  deep,  wedge-shaped  recess  in  the  wall. 
I  put  the  lantern  on  the  floor  of  this  recess,  and  wriggled 
myself  forward  on  my  hands  and  knees. 

It  was  a  good  stretch  tp  where  I  had  hidden  the  box — 
very  near  to  the  point  of  the  wedge,  in  fact — and  just  as 
I  had  got  my  fingers  on  the  end  of  the  box  a  very  dread- 
ful thing  happened. 

I  had  jammed  the  box  in  so  tight  that  it  was  not  easy 
to  get  it  out.  My  fingers  could  just  stretch  sufficiently 
to  grip  the  end  of  it,  but  I  could  get  no  purchase,  and 
the  box  refused  obstinately  to  move.  I  suppose  in  my 
efforts  I  forgot  to  look  after  my  feet  as  I  should  have 
done.  Anyhow,  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  that  I  kicked 
the  lantern  over,  right  down  the  stairs. 

I  shall  never  to  my  dying  day  forget  the  appalling 
clatter  that  lantern  made  as  it  went  dribbling  down  the 
stone  steps.  I  made  up  my  mind  on  the  spot  that  it 
must  wake  every  soul  sleeping  in  the  house.  As  to  Nor- 
man, the  noise  must  have  given  him  a  perfect  fit.  Of 
course,  the  stupid  thing,  not  content  with  making  enough 
noise  to  wake  the  dead,  had  gone  out  as  well,  and  I  was 
in  absolute  darkness.  However,  I  suppose  I  am  obsti- 
nate by  nature,  not  to  say  pig-headed,  for  instead  of 
groping  my  way  downstairs  into  safety,  I  ground  my 
teeth  and  held  on  to  my  red  box  like  grim  death.  I 
knew  Norman  would  wake,  and  I  knew  the  chances  were 
he  would  come  down  to  see  what  was  going  on,  but  for 
all  that  I  was  not  going  without  my  box.  I  had  come  to 
get  it,  and  get  it  I  would. 


276  THE   PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

So  I  tugged  and  tugged  till  my  fingers  all  but  cracked, 
but  the  box  refused  to  budge.  I  changed  my  grip,  and 
pulled  in  a  rather  different  manner,  and  to  my  unspeak- 
able joy  I  felt  the  box  yielding.  But  at  the  very  same 
moment  I  heard  the  door  at  the  top  open,  and  a  ray  of  light 
shot  across  the  dusty  stones.  Norman  was  coming  down ! 

The  box  was  half-way  out  by  now,  and  I  was  wrig- 
gling it  up  and  down,  and  drawing  it  out  inch  by  inch. 
I  could  see  the  reflection  of  the  candle  coming  nearer 
and  nearer  with  every  second.  I  remember  quite  dis- 
tinctly thinking  how  brave  it  was  of  Norman  facing  the 
unknown  dangers  that  clattering  lantern  might  have 
meant  for  him. 

With  one  frantic  final  effort  I  wrenched  the  box  clear, 
and  grabbing  it  by  the  handle,  backed  myself  on  to  the 
stairs.  I  thought  to  slip  quietly  down  into  the  panelled 
room,  while  Norman  was  still  standing  undecided ;  but 
he  was  too  quick  for  me.  As  my  feet  touched  the  steps 
I  felt  myself  seized  by  the  wrist. 

"No,  no,  my  sweet  little  cousin,"  he  said;  "since  you 
have  done  me  this  great  and  unexpected  honour,  I  really 
cannot  allow  you  to  make  off  in  this  unceremonious  man- 
ner. It  would  be  too  great  a  slur  on  the  hospitality  of 
Sel  worth." 

I  said  nothing,  but  made  desperate  efforts  to  get  clear. 
If  he  had  had  both  hands  free,  I  should  of  course  have 
had  no  ghost  of  a  chance  with  him;  but  as  it  was  the 
candle  in  his  left  hand  prevented  him  from  holding  on  to 
anything,  and  I  was  at  a  distinct  advantage.  I  pulled 
him  down  step  by  step,  and  for  my  own  part  I  wanted 
nothing  better.  My  one  idea,  of  course,  was  to  get  to 
Sydney.  With  his  bad  arm  it  was  a  sheer  impossibility 
for  him  to  come  to  me,  poor  fellow!  I  knew  that. 


A   DARING   BURGLARY  277 

I  think  Norman  must  have  tried  to  put  down  the  can- 
dle on  the  ledge  where  I  had  been  kneeling.  Anyhow, 
he  half  turned  his  back  on  me  for  a  moment,  and  I,  see- 
ing my  opportunity,  gave  one  desperate  tug,  and  brought 
him  tumbling  down  a-top  of  me,  candle  and  all.  The 
candle,  of  course,  went  out,  and  we  both  rolled  to  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs  in  pitch  darkness.  I  could  hear 
Norman's  quick,  short  breathing  as  he  grabbed  wildly  at 
me  in  the  dark. 

"Let  me  go!"  I  gasped,  "or  we  shall  both  break  our 
necks.  I'll  talk  to  you  in  the  room  below." 

"You  must  let  me  get  down  first,  then,"  he  said.  "I 
wouldn't  trust  you  else." 

"All  right,"  I  agreed.  "You  get  down  first."  I 
chuckled  to  myself  to  think  of  the  surprise  waiting  for 
him  below. 

He  let  me  go,  and  we  both  struggled  to  our  feet  pant- 
ing. Then,  slowly  and  cautiously,  I  heard  him  let  him- 
self down  into  the  room.  Next  moment  there  was  a 
scuffle  below,  followed  by  a  loud  oath,  and  the  sound  of 
a  volley  of  blows  given  in  quick  succession. 

"Damn  you,  whoever  you  are!"  I  heard  Norman  say. 
"Why  the  devil  can't  you  show  yourself?"  There  was 
no  answer,  but  the  sound  of  a  couple  of  smacking  blows, 
and  then  Norman's  voice  again,  "Take  that  anyhow, 
you  damned,  sneaking  burglar!" 

There  was  no  doubt  the  De  Metriers  had  pluck,  what- 
ever faults  they  might  have  on  the  other  side. 

I  was  sitting  on  the  chimney-piece  ready  to  drop  down, 
but  afraid  of  tumbling  on  the  top  of  the  two  below;  but 
suddenly  Sydney's  voice  called  out,  "Come  here,  Joe, 
and  strike  a  match ;  you  will  find  the  box  in  my  pocket." 

His  voice  told  me  where  he  was,  and  I  dropped  down 


278  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

behind  him  and  got  my  hand  into  his  pocket.  It  was 
not  easy,  for  he  was  swaying  about  the  room  like  a  tree 
in  the  wind,  but  I  managed  it  in  the  end,  and  lighting  a 
match,  held  it  high  above  my  head  in  my  left  hand. 
The  light  flickered  feebly  round  the  room,  casting  weird, 
ghostly  shadows  upon  the  walls.  Between  the  fireplace 
and  the  dressing-table  Sydney  and  Norman  were  fighting 
like  wild  beasts.  Sydney  had  his  left  shoulder  turned 
away  from  the  other,  to  protect  his  bad  arm  I  supposed, 
and  with  his  right  was  driving  Norman  backwards, 
towards  the  window.  The  first  thing  I  saw  with  any 
clearness  was  Sydney's  fist  strike  Norman  full  under  the 
chin  with  a  soft,  pulpy  noise.  Norman  spun  half  round, 
and  next  moment  Sydney  had  seized  him  by  the  back  of 
the  neck,  and  held  him  at  arm's  length,  kicking  frantic- 
ally. How  splendidly  strong  he  was,  I  thought! 

"Joe,"  he  called  out,  "unlock  the  door,  take  out  the 
key,  and  put  it  on  the  outside  of  the  door.  Have  you 
done  that?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.     His  back  was  turned  to  me. 

"Now,  light  a  fresh  match,  and  get  outside  into  the 
passage." 

"All  right!"  I  cried. 

I  saw  him  hurl  Norman  with  all  his  force  towards  the 
window,  and  next  second  he  was  outside  with  me,  and 
we  had  the  door  locked.  Norman  rushed  at  the  door 
and  rattled  it  furiously,  using  the  while  words  that  were 
not  pleasant  to  hear.  Then  we  heard  him  stumble  to 
the  bedside  and  tear  at  the  bell.  We  could  hear  the 
strained  wires  creaking  in  the  woodwork  over  our  heads. 

"Ring  away,  my  friend,"  Sydney  laughed.  "You 
won't  hurt  us." 

We  tumbled  post  haste  down  the  stairs  by  the  light  of 


A   DARING   BURGLARY  279 

the  matches.  The  third  one  was  just  burning  down  to 
my  fingers  as  we  dashed  out  into  the  garden. 

"Come  along!"  said  Sydney.  "He's  capable  of 
shooting  us  from  the  window  if  he  gets  the  chance." 

We  ran  till  we  were  clear  of  the  trees,  and  across  the 
road  on  to  the  open  Plain.  The  big  clock  behind  us 
chimed  a  quarter  past  four;  we  were  at  least  half  an 
hour  later  than  we  should  have  been,  but  what  did  we 
care?  We  had  the  box,  and  that  was  the  great  thing. 
They  were  not  likely  to  hang  me,  even  if  I  was  caught 
making  a  burglarious  entrance  into  Ashby.  I  laughed 
aloud  at  the  thought  of  breaking  into  two  distinct  houses 
in  one  night!  Jack  Sheppard  was  not  in  it  with  me! 
It  would  seem  quite  tame  after  this,  going  into  houses  by 
the  ordinary,  matter-of-fact  methods! 

Sydney  thawed  considerably  on  the  way  back,  espe- 
cially at  first.  He  was  excited,  I  expect,  by  his  struggle 
with  Norman,  and  quite  forgot  for  a  time  to  be  stiff  and 
stand-offish.  Later  on,  however,  when  we  were  near 
home,  he  dropped  back  into  the  old  way  again,  and  was 
perfectly  odious.  At  first  we  talked  a  good  deal.  Nor- 
man, he  said,  had  hit  him  in  the  face  three  or  four  times. 
He  quite  expected  to  have  a  couple  of  black  eyes  in  the 
morning. 

"I  shall  certainly  be  too  unpresentable  to  appear  at 
Ashby,"  he  said.  "You  will  have  to  send  for  me  if  you 
want  me." 

I  laughed,  and  said  I  was  not  likely  to  do  that;  it 
would  simply  be  giving  myself  away. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  he  said,  shortly;  and  after  that 
came  the  old  dreary  silence,  and  tramp,  tramp,  tramp 
across  the  wet,  spongy  grass. 

He   came   with   me  as  far  as  my  open  window;  he 


280  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

insisted  on  doing  that.  It  had  a  terribly  criminal  effect, 
that  black,  gaping  window. 

"Fancy,  if  a  real  genuine  burglar  has  been  getting 
through  it  in  the  meanwhile!"  I  suggested. 

"Not  likely,"  he  said;  "burglars  don't  grow  in  the 
garden,  that  I  know  of." 

I  turned  to  him  and  held  out  my  hand. 

"Good-night!" 

"Good-night!"  he  said,  shook  hands  limply,  and 
walked  away. 

It  must  certainly  be  the  Duke,  I  thought. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

MY   HEADACHE,    AND   WHAT   CAME   OF   IT 

T  SUPPOSE  it  was  twelve  o'clock  before  I  awoke  next 
•••  morning.  I  was  getting  quite  into  the  habit  of 
sleeping  on  into  the  middle  of  the  day.  I  had  pinned  a 
paper  on  to  my  door  telling  the  world  that  I  had  a  head- 
ache, and  wished  not  to  be  disturbed,  and  consequently 
I  had  been  allowed  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just  burglar. 
I  had  been  so  utterly  dog-tired  the  night  before  that  I 
had  not  even  had  the  curiosity  to  open  my  box,  or  rather 
my  exhaustion  had  been  greater  even  than  my  curiosity, 
and  I  had  tumbled  straight  into  bed,  leaving  the  box 
unopened  on  the  sofa.  Thank  Heaven,  there  was  no 
need  to  hide  things  away  in  this  house! 

When  I  awoke  it  was  some  time  before  I  could  col- 
lect my  thoughts.  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  and  yawned,  and 
wondered  why  the  girls'  maid  hadn't  called  me,  and  then 
suddenly,  like  a  flash,  the  whole  thing  came  back  to  me. 

Good  gracious!  What  time  was  it?  I  wondered. 
I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  opened  the  curtains  and  shut- 
ters. It  was  very  broad  daylight,  indeed.  The  winter 
sun  was  well  up  in  the  sky,  and  there  was  an  indescrib- 
able feel  in  the  air  that  told  me  as  plain  as  a  clock 
that  it  was  nearer  luncheon  time  than  breakfast.  So  I 
jumped  into  bed  again  and  rang  the  bell.  My  watch — 
one  of  Uncle  Guy's  many  presents — I  had  of  course  for- 
gotten to  wind  up;  and  the  ancient  French  clock  on  the 

281 


282  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

chimney-piece  was  equally,  of  course,  not  going,  so 
that  I  had  nothing  but  my  own  senses  to  trust  to.  In 
five  minutes  the  maid  arrived. 

"What  time  is  it,  Ce"cile?"  I  asked. 

"Half-past  twelve,  miss,"  she  said. 

"Oh!  my  hot  water,  please,  then,  Ce*cile. " 

"Yes,    miss.     And   will   you    have    anything   before 
luncheon?" 

"No,"  I  said,  laughing,  "I  think  not.     I  can't  come 
down  to  a  one-o'clock  breakfast  at  my  age." 

I  was  ravenously  hungry,  it  is  true,  but  then  I  had  the 
box,  which  would  feed  my  curiosity  if  not  my  material 
frame,  and  the  hunger  of  the  first  was  if  anything  greater 
than  the  second.  So  I  dashed  into  my  bath,  and  dashed 
out  of  it,  and  into  my  clothes  in  a  feverish  state  of  hurry 
and  excitement.  By  a  quarter  past  one  I  was  clothed 
and  in  my  right  mind,  and  flung  myself  on  the  sofa  in  a 
state  of  such  eagerness  as  has  never  been  equalled  by  the 
most  ravenous  devourers  of  new  and  stimulating  novels. 
What  hidden  mystery  of  a  past  generation  was  I  not 
about  to  unravel?  What  unrevealed  tragedies  and  crimes 
might  not  be  hidden  inside  that  little  red  box?  I  turned 
the  key,  and  the  box  opened  with  a  readiness  that  was 
almost  disappointing  in  its  simplicity.  I  should  have 
preferred  a  refractory  lock,  and  key  rusted  and  crusted 
with  age,  and  hinges  that  creaked  and  groaned  with  the 
lifting  of  the  lid.  It  would  have  been  more  exciting, 
more  suggestive  of  some  ancient,  jealously  guarded 
secret.  But  of  all  this  there  was  nothing;  the  box 
opened  easily  and  simply  at  the  first  time  of  asking. 
Within  lay  several  papers,  some  tied  together  with  tape, 
others  separate.  The  topmost  paper  was  the  bulkiest,  a 
long,  thickly  folded  document,  written  in  big,  bold  man- 


MY  HEADACHE,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT      283 

uscript.  On  the  outside  I  read,  "The  confession  of 
Susan  Beddington,  a  great  sinner  before  God  and 
man." 

The  other  papers  were  without  description.  Poor  old 
Susan's,  I  thought,  was  the  one  to  start  on;  hers  was 
probably  a  resume  of  the  rest — the  gist  and  kernel  of  the 
whole  thing. 

I  opened  it  with  the  slow  deliberation  which  is  often 
the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  a  feverish  impatience 
within;  and  the  next  moment  I  had  folded  it  again,  flung 
it  into  the  box,  slammed  down  the  lid,  locked  it,  and 
rammed  the  whole  thing  under  the  chintz  valance  of  the 
sofa. 

For  coming  along  the  passage  was  the  sound  of 
voices — happy,  healthy,  laughing,  tiresome,  irritating, 
maddening  voices.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
the  next  moment,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  they 
trooped  in,  the  three  inseparable  sisters. 

"You  poor  darling!"  said  Alice,  falling  on  my  neck, 
"how  are  you  now?" 

"Oh!  she  does  look  pale,  doesn't  she,  Beatrice?"cried 
Mary,  with  face  and  voice  agonised  with  sympathy. 

"It  was  those  truffles,  you  know,  Josephine,"  said 
Beatrice,  shaking  her  head  in  mournful  reproof.  "I  was 
afraid  when  I  saw  you  eating  them ;  they  always  disagree 
with  me." 

Their  hands  were  packed  with  bottles  and  phials  and 
boxes. 

"I  have  brought  you  my  ether  spray,"  Beatrice  said; 
"it  is  the  most  marvellous  thing  in  the  world  for  a  head- 
ache." 

"Splendid!"  assented  Alice,  hurriedly;  "and  if  you 
will  take  one  of  these  powders  before  luncheon,  you  will 


284  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

be  as  right  as  a  trivet  before  three  o'clock.  Dr.  Watson 
gave  them  to  me  last  year.  They  ace  wonderful!" 

"Well,  I  will  back  hot  sal  volatile  and  water  against 
anything  in  the  world,"  put  in  Mary  from  the  back- 
ground. "And  you  can  put  a  lump  of  sugar  in  it  if  you 
like.  Do  try  it!" 

"And  mother  wants  to  know  if  you  would  like  the 
doctor  sent  for." 

"And  she  hopes  you  will  not  on  any  account  leave 
your  room  unless  you  feel  quite  up  to  it." 

"And  she  is  having  some  white-wine-whey  made,  and 
some  barley-water.  It  will  be  up  here  directly.  She 
says  there  is  nothing  like  it." 

"And  what  would  you  like  sent  up  for  your  luncheon?" 

"And  Cecile  will  bring  you  a  hot-water  bottle  in  a  few 
minutes." 

"And  mother  has  given  orders  that  no  one  is  on  any 
account  to  come  down  this  passage  except  Cecile." 

"And  you  have  got  no  fire!" 

"And  your  window  is  open!" 

"And  you  are  sitting  in  a  thorough  draught!" 

"But  I  am  all  right,"  I  cried,  laughing  in  spite  of 
myself.  "There  is  nothing  in  the  world  the  matter  with 
me  now.  I  was  just  going  out." 

"Your  headache  is  gone?"  they  cried  in  chorus,  and  in 
open  disappointment. 

"Yes,  quite  gone.     I  slept  it  off." 

"Well,  take  some  sal  volatile  anyhow,"  pleaded 
Alice,  not  to  be  baulked.  "It  will  do  you  a  lot  of 
good." 

"Thanks,"  I  said,  laughing.  "I  don't  want  any 
good  doing  to  me.  Let's  go  out." 

I  knew  I  should  never  get  rid  of  them  otherwise. 


MY  HEADACHE,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT      285 

N 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  Susan's  confessions  must 
wait. 

"Yes,  let's  go  out. "  They  all  assented  with  one  voice. 
They  were  always  ready  for  anything  one  proposed. 

"Put  on  your  shoes,"  said  Beatrice.  "Why,  good 
gracious!  they're  all  wet!" 

"Oh,  I'll  put  on  another  pair,"  I  said,  hurriedly. 
"A  pair  of  yours,  Beatrice,  I  think;  they  seem  to  fit  me 
best." 

"But  how  disgraceful  of  Cecile  not  taking  them 
down!  I'll  ring  the  bell  and  pitch  into  her." 

"Oh,  please  don't!"  I  said,  in  a  whirl  of  terror. 
"What  does  it  matter  after  all?  Let's  go  out  while  we 
can.  There's  not  much  time." 

So  the  episode  of  the  shoes  was  overlooked,  and  in 
five  minutes  clean  forgotten,  and  we  went  out  and  strolled 
about  the  garden  till  the  outside  bell  went  for  luncheon. 

"We  were  quite  alarmed  about  you,  Miss  de  Metrier, " 
said  the  Duke.  "You  narrowly  escaped  having  Gull  sent 
for  to  see  you." 

"I  think  she  still  looks  a  little  pale,"  said  Alice,  con- 
cernedly. "Make  her  have  some  port,  mother!" 

"I  found  some  property  of  yours  in  the  garden  this 
morning,"  the  Duke  said,  suddenly. 

"Of  mine?"  I  cried,  feeling  I  was  growing  scarlet. 

"Yes,  in  the  bushes  under  the  octagon  room." 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  inanely,  diving  under  the  table  to 
hunt  for  my  napkin.  I  was  bound  to  provide  some 
explanation  for  my  apoplectic  colour. 

"From  the  place  in  which  I  found  it,  and  from  the 
signs,  I  should  say  you  had  been  making  burglarious 
entrances  into  the  house,"  he  went  on,  smiling. 


286  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Ha!  ha!"  I  said. 

"I  hope  you  girls  have  not  been  climbing  in  at  that 
window,"  the  Duchess  put  in  plaintively.  "You  know  I 
have  begged  you  not  to,  repeatedly.  It  simply  ruins 
the  woodwork  and  paint." 

"Oh,  no,  mother!"  cried  the  chorus. 

"Some  one  has,"  said  the  Duke,  "and  has  dropped 
that  in  doing  so.  Perhaps  it  was  the  housekeeper." 

The  housekeeper  weighed  nineteen  stone. 

He  laid  a  handkerchief  on  the  table,  very  clearly 
marked  in  red  cotton,  J.  de  Metrier. 

"Why,  you  weren't  in  the  garden  yesterday,"  Mary 
said. 

"The  footprints  are  very  fresh,"  said  the  Duke,  look- 
ing at  me  with  much  amusement  in  his  eye,  "and  not 
very  large." 

Every  one  looked  at  me,  and  I  suppose  my  face  was 
like  a  frosty  sunset,  for  the  Duchess  called  out  suddenly: 

"Good  gracious!  I  had  almost  forgotten  about  driv- 
ing into  Greystoke  this  afternoon.  Which  of  you  girls  is 
coming  with  me?" 

I  felt  I  could  have  hugged  her,  dear  old  thing !  I  sup- 
pose the  others  saw  her  intention,  and  followed  her 
lead,  for  no  one  said  any  more  about  my  handkerchief, 
or  the  footprints  under  the  octagon  room.  Only  after- 
wards, when  we  were  alone,  Beatrice  whispered: 

"Did  you  really  climb  in  at  the  octagon  window?" 

"Yes,  I  really  did." 

"Oh,  what  fun!  It  drives  mother  wild,  but  of  course 
it  saves  a  lot  of  trouble  if  one  is  that  side  of  the  house. 
They  ought  to  make  a  door  there  if  they  don't  want  one 
to  climb  in  at  the  window." 

"When  did  you  do  it?"  Alice  asked. 


MY  HEADACHE,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT      287 

"Oh,  some  time  yesterday;  I  forget  the  exact  time." 
"Fancy  your  thinking  of  it!      I   suppose  it   was   a 

natural  inspiration." 

"It  proves  conclusively  to  my  mind,"  said  Beatrice, 

"that  the  window  was  made  expressly  to  climb  in  at. 

What  else  could  possibly  have  put  it  into  Josephine's 

head?" 

Alice  drove  into  Greystoke  with  the  Duchess,  and  I 
went  out  riding  with  the  other  two  in  Alice's  habit.  We 
had  a  long  ride,  and  when  we  got  in  there  was  tea,  and 
it  was  very  difficult  to  get  away,  for  their  mother  not  yet 
being  back  made  the  two  girls  cling  to  me  more  than  ever. 

"I  am  going  up  to  my  room,"  I  said  presently. 

"Oh,  all  right.     May  we  come,  too?" 

"Well,  I  have  got  some  papers  to  read,  and  I  don't 
think  I  should  understand  them  very  well  if  you  were 
there  talking." 

"We  won't  talk.     We  will  read,  too,  if  you  like." 

"There  are  not  enough  comfortable  chairs." 

"Oh,  yes;  we'll  manage  somehow.     Come  along. " 

So,  with  their  arms  encircling  me,  they  dragged  me 
off;  and  seeing  no  way  out  of  it,  I  made  the  best  of  a 
bad  job,  and  consented  with  as  good  a  grace  as  I  could. 
After  all,  there  was  no  reason  I  should  not  read  the 
things  with  them  in  the  room. 

"You  must  be  very  quiet,"  I  said,  when  we  had  lit  all 
the  candles,  and  I  had  got  the  red  box  on  my  knee. 
"These  are  family  documents,  and  require  deep 
thought." 

"They  look  splendidly  mysterious,"  Mary  said,  "the 
box  alone  is  worthy  of  a  Prime  Minister." 

"Hush!"  I  said.  "I'm  going  to  read." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

SUSAN  CROSSLEY'S  CONFESSION 

T  TOOK  out  the  thickest  paper,  the  Confession  of 
•*•  Susan  Beddington,  and  spread  it  open  on  my  knee. 
On  the  inner  sheet  was  written,  "To  Miss  Josephine  de 
Metrier,"  and  below  it: 

"If  ever  this  writing  should  come  to  your  eyes,  it  will 
in  all  probability  be  when  the  poor  sinner  who  writes  it 
has  passed  away.  I  have  never  seen  you  since  you  were 
eight  years  old.  In  those  days  you  promised  to  be  the 
dead  picture  of  your  glorious  mother,  the  grandest  crea- 
ture I  ever  saw,  and  the  best,  from  all  accounts;  and  if 
you  are  like  her  in  mind  as  well  as  in  body,  you  will  per- 
haps forgive  me  the  immense  injury  I  have  done  you,  as 
I  hope  the  great  God  above  will  forgive  me  the  greater 
sins  I  have  sinned  against  Him.  This  poor  attempt  at 
atonement,  this  miserably  late  endeavour  to  undo  in 
some  part  the  wrong  I  have  done,  comes,  I  know,  only 
from  the  fear  of  death  and  of  the  Great  Judgment.  As 
long  as  I  was  strong  and  young,  and  death  seemed  a 
faint,  far-off  thing  in  the  distance,  I  cared  for  nothing 
but  the  vanities  and  pleasures  of  this  world,  and  beyond 
these  never  looked.  But  now  that  a  cold  hand  grips  my 
heart,  and  the  grave  gapes  close  before  me,  I  do  look 
beyond,  as  well  as  back,  and  I  see  the  red  horror  of  my 
sins,  and  trusting  in  the  infinite  mercy  of  God,  I  write 

288 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         289 

this  confession  in  the  hope  of  undoing  the  wrong  I  have 
done,  and  of  making,  if  may  be,  my  peace  with  Heaven." 

I  turned  over  a  fresh  sheet  and  read : 

"The  Confession  of  Susan  Beddington  of  the  sins  of 
Susan  Crossley. 

"It  was  in  April,  1806,  that  the  evil  began.  I  was 
standing  outside  the  door  of  Croft's  Farm  when  a  groom 
rode  up  the  lane,  and  waved  to  me  over  the  gate  of  the 
garden.  I  took  no  manner  of  notice  at  first,  thinking 
the  man  was  merely  bent  on  fooling,  but  after  a  little  he 
called  out  from  his  horse,  'Mistress  Susan,  Mistress 
Susan,  I  have  a  letter  for  you  from  the  Squire. ' 

"He  waved  a  white  square  in  the  air,  and  the  sun  fell 
on  it,  and  painted  it  whiter  still,  and  thinking  he  was 
lying,  but  still  full  of  idle  curiosity,  I  strolled  slowly 
towards  the  gate,  swinging  my  sun-bonnet  in  one  hand 
by  the  ribbons. 

"It  was  for  me,  sure  enough — addressed  to  Miss 
Susan  Crossley,  and  bearing  the  De  Metrier  arms.  I 
opened  it  carelessly,  and  with  a  fine  show  of  carelessness 
read: 

" '  Mr.  and  Mrs.  de  Metrier  would  be  very  pleased  if  Miss 
Crossley  would  undertake  the  care  of  their  child  at  the  Abbey. 
If  she  is  willing  to  do  this,  she  will  be  so  kind  as  to  come  up  to 
the  Abbey  at  once.  A  cart  will  be  sent  to  bring  up  any  things 
Miss  Crossley  wishes  to  have  with  her.  Mr.  de  Metrier  is  pre- 
pared to  give  £y>  a  year  if  Miss  Crossley  will  act  as  nurse.' 

"  'Thank  you,'  I  said,  as  haughty  as  possible,  and 
trying  to  look  as  if  I  was  not  ready  to  jump  out  of  my 
skin  with  joy  at  this  extraordinary  honour;  'will  you  say 
that  I  will  be  up  in  an  hour?' 


290  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"I  had  no  fear  of  what  father  and  mother  would  say. 
I  knew  they  would  be  just  as  proud  and  honoured  as  I 
was,  as  indeed  they  were,  and  even  more  so.  The  only 
thing  that  puzzled  them  was  why  in  the  world  they  had 
hit  upon  me,  a  mere  slip  of  a  girl  with  no  experience,  to 
undertake  such  a  precious  charge.  However,  there  it 
was,  there  was  no  question  about  that,  so  I  dressed  my- 
self out  in  all  my  Sunday  finery — and  pretty  good  finery 
it  was  for  a  girl  in  my  situation;  too  good,  father  always 
would  say — and  up  I  tripped  to  the  Abbey,  first  across 
the  fields,  and  then  through  the  park,  singing  and  carol- 
ling like  the  silly,  empty-headed  young  fool  I  was. 

"The.  Squire  saw  me  first  in  his  study,  and  then  the 
housekeeper  took  me  up  to  the  nursery. 

"  'Haven't  you  got  a  decent  black  dress  or  a  plain 
print?'  she  asked,  with  a  touch  of  scorn,  I  thought.  'I 
never  did  see  such  a  figure  for  a  gentleman's  servant.' 

"I  was  more  than  a  little  surprised  at  this,  for 
my  dress  was  thought  a  deal  of  in  the  village,  but  I 
said  nothing,  thinking  perhaps  she  was  ignorant  or 
jealous. 

"In  the  nursery  we  found  a  housemaid  trying  to  rock 
the  baby  to  sleep,  and  making  but  a  poor  hand  of  it,  for 
the  child  was  screaming  fit  to  take  the  roof  off. 

"  'The  monthly  nurse  left  to-day,'  the  housekeeper 
explained,  'and  he  misses  her,  poor  mite!' 

"Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  I  stayed  with  the 
child  from  that  day  on,  and  got  to  love  it  as  though  it 
were  my  very  own.  It  was  a  poor  little  misery  of  a 
thing,  with  one  leg  two  inches  short  of  the  other,  and 
cross-eyed  as  a  weasel.  I  often  think  it  was  a  wonder 
that  it  lived  at  all,  for  the  child  was  never  well,  and  no 
one  but  its  mother  and  myself  seemed  to  care  if  it  lived 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         291 

or  died.  I  begged  Mrs.  de  Metrier  time  without  end  to 
send  for  the  doctor  for  it,  but  she  said  I  must  ask  the 
Squire,  and  that  if  he  said  no,  we  must  just  nurse  it  as 
best  we  could  between  us.  I  think  that  poor  woman 
forgave  me  everything,  and  even  loved  me  in  spite  of 
everything,  just  because  of  the  love  I  had  for  her  child. 
But  when  I  talked  to  the  Squire  of  a  doctor  he  just  flew 
into  a  rage,  and  told  me  not  to  be  a  fool,  and  that  the 
child  was  well  enough,  and  at  all  events,  as  well  as  it 
ever  would  be,  doctor  or  no  doctor.  So,  after  a  bit,  I 
gave  up  asking.  I  am  as  sure  now  as  I  am  of  death, 
that  one  of  the  reasons  the  Squire  chose  me  as  a  nurse 
for  the  child  was  because  he  thought  that  I  was  young 
and  careless  and  ignorant,  and  would  as  like  as  not  let 
the  child  die  of  neglect.  I  was  barely  eighteen  at  the 
time,  and  had  a  name  for  giddiness  and  folly  and  vanity 
for  many  a  mile  round.  But  in  this  he  made  a  very 
great  mistake  indeed,  for  giddy  and  foolish  though  I 
was,  and  with  my  silly  head  full  of  my  own  good  looks 
and  what  not,  I  was  not  downright  wicked  at  that  time. 
That  came  after.  And,  thank  God !  I  can  say  truthfully, 
and  with  a  clear  conscience,  that  no  mother  could 
have  loved  and  cared  for  that  child  more  than  I  did. 
But  as  to  Mordaunt — the  Squire,  that  is — he  simply 
loathed  the  sight  of  it,  though,  if  he  and  Mrs.  de  Metrier 
chanced  to  be  in  the  nursery  at  the  same  time,  he  would 
make  a  pretence  of  playing  with  it,  and  taking  it  on  his 
knee,  and  the  rest  of  it,  just  to  keep  her  quiet,  and 
hinder  her  from  thinking  other  things. 

"The  boy  was  christened  Guy,  and  a  proper  name  for 
him,  too,  every  one  said ;  for  a  more  woeful  little  Guy 
was  never  held  to  a  font. 

"Well,  exactly  ten  months  after  Guy  was  born  there 


292  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

came  another  baby,  a  boy,  too,  and  this  time  as  bonny 
a  babe  as  man  or  wife  might  wish  to  see,  but  with  no  lit- 
tle finger  on  the  left  hand,  only  a  little  bit  of  a  stump 
with  no  nail  on  it.  They  got  another  nurse  for  it,  a  Mrs. 
Graham  from  somewhere  in  Scotland,  and  it  was  put  in 
the  old  nursery  at  the  other  end  of  the  house.  The  day 
after  it  was  born,  Mordaunt  came  up  into  my  nursery. 
I  have  never  seen  a  man  so  changed;  his  face  was  beam- 
ing from  ear  to  ear,  and  his  spirits  were  more  like  a 
boy's  let  loose  from  school  than  a  grown-up  man's. 

'  'Susan,'  he  said  presently,  'I  want  you  to  pay  par- 
ticular attention  to  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  In  the 
first  place,  you  are  never  to  take  this  child  to  the  east  of 
the  door  at  the  foot  of  your  stairs.  When  you  take  him 
out,  you  are  invariably  to  turn  to  the  left,  and  keep  in 
the  shrubberies  that  side.  In  the  second  place,  you  are 
never,  under  any  pretence,  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Graham, 
the  new  nurse;  and  in  the  third  place,  you  are  always  to 
take  the  child  out  with  a  thick  white  veil  over  its  face. 
Do  you  see?' 

"  'Yes,'  I  said,  'but  why?  The  poor  child  will  choke 
on  a  hot  day!' 

"  'Nonsense!'  he  said;  *show  me  some  of  its  veils. 

"I  brought  out  a  number  from  a  drawer,  and  he 
selected  one,  and  held  it  out  to  me. 

'  'Never  anything  thinner  than  this,'  he  said,  nodding 
his  head  at  me,  'remember  that.  Order  as  many  more 
as  you  want.  And  one  thing  more,  never  let  any  one 
see  this  child,  in  the  house  or  out.  You  understand?' 

"  'Perfectly,'  I  said,  'there's  no  difficulty  about  it,  if 
you  insist  upon  it,  but  it  all  seems  to  me  very  extraor- 
dinary.' 

"  'Never  mind  what  it  seems  to  you,'  he  said,  laugh- 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         293 

ing.  'I  do  insist  upon  it  very  strongly;  so  do  what  I  tell 
you,  like  a  good  girl,  and  don't  bother  your  little  head 
about  reasons. ' 

"I  did  it,  of  course — Mordaunt  could  make  me  do 
what  he  liked — and  I  saw  no  particular  harm  in  it, 
though,  of  course,  it  did  seem  strange  and  unnatural. 
Twice  I  did  meet  Mrs.  Graham.  The  first  time  was  in 
the  long  west  passage.  I  was  going  to  borrow  a  book 
from  the  second  housemaid — a  thrilling  book  she  had 
promised  to  lend  me — and  on  the  way  back  I  met  Mrs. 
Graham.  I  had  never  seen  her  before,  nor  she  me,  but 
of  course  we  both  guessed  who  the  other  was.  She  was  a 
tall,  handsome  woman  of  about  forty,  with  a  strong,  kind 
face.  We  passed  one  another  without  a  word.  She  had 
clearly  had  her  orders  as  well  as  me. 

'The  next  time  was  about  a  month  later,  and  that 
time  we  did  speak.  It  was  on  the  back  stairs  that  lead 
from  the  first  floor  to  the  basement,  about  ten  o'clock  at 
night.  I  was  coming  up,  and  she  was  going  down.  I 
can't  say  what  prompted  me  to  speak.  I  suppose  it  was 
just  because  I  had  orders  not  to.  Anyhow  I  smiled 
across  at  her  and  said: 

"  'Baby  quite  well?' 

"  'Quite  well,  thank  you,  and  yours?' 
'  'Getting  on  nicely,  thank  you.' 

"  'Good-night!' 

"  'Good-night!' 

"That  was  all;  but  little  as  it  was,  it  led  to  great 
results,  as  you  will  presently  see. 

"A  month  after  the  new  baby  was  born  Mrs.  de 
Metrier  died.  She  had  never  got  over  it  properly,  they 
said,  and  in  fact,  she  never  really  left  her  bed.  Every 
one  was  sorry,  for  she  was  a  sweet,  kind  lady,  and  I 


294  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

fancy  had  no  easy  time  of  it  with  Mordaunt;  what  wife 
would  have  had? 

"Mordaunt  made  a  great  show  of  grief,  but  in  his 
heart  I  knew  he  cared  nothing.  He  never  had  cared  for 
her — married  her  for  her  money  and  not  for  herself — and 
after  she  had  brought  poor  little  Guy  into  the  world,  I 
believe  he  positively  hated  her.  He  put  the  whole  blame 
of  it  on  her,  and  perhaps  rightly,  poor  thing!  As  to  the 
new  baby — Gerard,  as  they  called  him — he  simply  raved 
about  him.  He  used  to  come  into  my  nursery  and  talk 
by  the  hour,  telling  me  what  a  strong,  handsome  little 
fellow  he  was,  and  how  like  himself  and  the  old  line  of 
De  Metriers,  till  it  used  to  make  me  sick  with  anger  and 
disgust.  For  I  used  to  think  of  the  poor,  white,  crooked 
little  mite  asleep  in  his  cot  in  the  next  room,  and  wonder 
who  would  be  found  to  take  his  part,  and  say  a  good 
word  for  him,  in  the  days  that  were  to  come. 

"Mordaunt,  I  knew,  would  always  hate  him.  He  was 
extraordinarily  vain  and  proud  of  his  beauty,  and  of  his 
father's  and  grandfather's  before  him;  and  his  one  idea 
in  life  was  to  have  an  heir  who  would  keep  up  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  family,  and  not  disgrace  him. 

"However,  nothing  happened  till  Guy  was  two  years 
old,  and  Gerard  ten  months  less.  Then  something  did 
happen,  though  no  one  thought  anything  of  it  at  the 
time. 

"Mrs.  Graham  was  found  dead  in  her  bed  in  the  old 
nursery.  The  doctor  came  and  gave  a  certificate,  and 
there  was  no  fuss  at  all,  and  the  poor  woman  was  buried 
in  Benton  Churchyard  and  forgotten.  Mordaunt  came 
to  me  with  Gerard  in  his  arms  early  in  the  morning. 
The  child  was  muffled  up  in  shawls  and  veils,  and  he 
came  and  laid  it  gently  on  my  knee. 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         295 

'4  'Mrs.  Graham  is  dead,'  he  said.  'We  will  have 
another  nurse  here  to-morrow,  and  in  the  meanwhile 
you  must  look  after  both.  And  I  wish  no  one  to  come 
into  this  room  on  any  account  except  myself.  All  the 
milk  and  things  must  be  put  in  the  next  room  and  left 
there.  You  and  the  children  are  to  stay  here,  and  let 
no  one  come  in.  Lock  the  door,  do  you  understand? 
Lock  the  door,  and  open  it  to  no  one. ' 

"He  was  quite  excited  for  him;  his  eyes  were  glitter- 
ing, and  he  spoke  very  fast. 

"  'I  understand  perfectly,'  I  said,  looking  at  him 
hard.  'What  did  Mrs.  Graham  die  of?' 

"  'Oh,  nobody  knows  yet,'  he  said,  carelessly;  'but 
we  have  sent  for  a  doctor,  and  he  will  soon  find  out. ' 

"I  said  nothing,  but  stared  at  him  with  a  kind  of  hor- 
rid curiosity,  for  I  believed  then,  truly  and  honestly, 
that  he  had  murdered  her.  Afterwards  I  changed  my 
mind,  but  to  this  day  I  am  not  sure  about  it.  God  grant 
he  was  innocent!  He  had  plenty  against  him  without 
that.  It  seemed  to  me  later  on  that  it  was  absurd  to 
think  he  would  have  murdered  the  woman;  it  would  have 
been  so  much  simpler  to  have  sent  her  away.  But  what 
put  it  into  my  head  was  this:  Two  days  before  I  had 
had  a  note  from  Mrs.  Graham  brought  me  by  one  of  the 
housemaids.  This  note  is  in  the  box  with  the  other 
papers  marked  A." 

Here  my  curiosity  got  so  much  the  better  of  me  that 
I  turned  up  the  letter  in  question  and  read  it.  It  was 
written  in  a  spidery  hand,  and  in  very  faded  ink,  but 
was  quite  legible. 

"  DEAR  Miss  CROSSLEY, — I  was  horrified  and  amazed  yester- 
day by  a  proposal  that  was  made  to  me  by  the  Squire.  He 
actually  suggested  changing  our  two  babies,  and  turning  mine 


296  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

into  the  eldest  and  yours  into  the  youngest.  He  had  the  effrontery 
to  offer  me  ^100  down  if  I  would  consent  to  this,  and  swear  my- 
self to  secrecy.  Of  course  I  told  him  I  could  never  agree  to  do 
such  a  wicked,  dishonest  thing,  and  he  then  flew  into  a  towering 
rage,  and  said  there  was  nothing  dishonest  about  it,  and  it  would 
hurt  nobody,  and  he  would  give  me  a  day  to  think  it  over.  Of 
course  he  will  send  me  away,  for  no  money  will  induce  me  to  have 
part  in  such  a  wicked  scheme;  and  I  write  to  you  to  implore  you  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it  either,  for  of  course  he  will  make  the 
same  proposal  to  you.  Miss  Crossley,  don't  do  it.  You  are  very 
young,  and  he  will  try  hard  to  persuade  you,  but  believe  me, 
nothing  but  harm  can  come  of  flying  in  such  a  way  in  the  face  of 
the  Lord's  will. 

"MARGARET  GRAHAM." 

I  replaced  the  letter  in  the  box,  and  turned  again  vo 
the  Confession. 

"This  letter  I  received  on  the  evening  before  the 
poor  woman's  death.  It  might,  of  course,  be  accident, 
but  I  thought  it  looked  odd,  and  I  stared  very  hard  at 
Mordaunt  as  he  stood  swaggering  in  front  of  the  fire. 

"  'Well,'  he  said,  roughly,  'what  are  you  looking  at?' 

"I  answered  nothing,  for  I  was  dumb  with  the  horror 
of  my  thoughts. 

"  'Don't  you  like  having  the  two  of  them  to  look 
after?'  he  said.  'Is  that  why  you  look  so  glum?  Well, 
it's  only  for  one  day,  Susan.  You  needn't  make  such  a 
to-do  over  it. ' 

"I  was  making  no  to-do  at  all;  I  was  just  silent  and 
thoughtful.  But  this  was  clearly  what  he  didn't  like,  for 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  turned  up  his  eyes,  and 
walked  out  of  the  room  whistling. 

"In  the  evening  he  came  again.  The  doctor  had 
been,  and  the  certificate  was  made  out,  and  everything 
was  as  it  should  be.  Then  he  told  me  of  his  plan. 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         297 

"A  new  nurse  would  be  coming  the  next  day.  She 
should  take  my  poor  little  weakling,  believing  that  it 
was  Gerard,  the  youngest.  And  I  was  to  take  the  child 
that  had  been  with  Mrs.  Graham,  and  it  was  to  be  called 
Guy,  the  first-born.  In  fact,  the  two  were  to  be  changed, 
names  and  all.  There  was  no  difficulty  about  it,  for 
the  real  Guy  was  very  small  for  his  age,  and  the  other  a 
splendid  big  child,  who  might  readily  have  passed  for 
the  elder.  And  no  one  had  seen  either  of  them — except 
at  the  christenings — and  then  there  was  not  much  to  be 
seen  beyond  the  point  of  a  little  nose  sticking  out  of  a 
bundle  of  lace.  So  that  the  plan  was  simplicity  itself, 
if  I  would  only  agree.  And  of  course  I  did  agree,  God 
forgive  me!  Mordaunt  could  make  me  do  anything. 
What  was  I  to  stand  against  him?  I  was  only  a  silly, 
vain  child,  and  he  coaxed  me  into  it  in  five  minutes.  I 
was  to  go  to  the  old  nursery  with  my  new  charge,  and 
the  new  nurse  was  to  stay  in  the  nurseries  where  I  had 
been  before.  I  say  now,  honestly,  before  God,  that  at 
the  time  I  consented,  I  had  persuaded  myself  that  it  was 
impossible  and  absurd  and  against  all  reason,  that  Mor- 
daunt should  have  murdered  Mrs.  Graham.  The  doctor 
said  it  was  heart;  everybody  in  the  house  seemed  quite 
satisfied  that  it  was  heart;  why  shouldn't  it  be  heart? 
Of  course  it  was.  I  felt  mean  and  despicable  for  ever 
having  suspected  anything  else.  Mordaunt  had  his 
faults,  without  doubt;  he  was  far  from  spotless,  but  he 
was  not  a  murderer. 

"So,  like  many  another  before  me  and  since,  I  per- 
suaded myself  easily  of  that  which  I  wished  in  my  heart 
to  believe.  Later  on,  when  I  learnt  of  the  staircase  in 
the  wall  that  connected  Maurice's  room,  where  Mor- 
daunt then  slept,  with  the  old  nursery,  I  became  doubt- 


298  THE    PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

ful  once  more,  but  it  was  too  late  then.  Murderer  or  no 
murderer,  it  was  all  the  same  then. 

"The  new  nurse  came  next  day  in  the  afternoon.  I 
had  begged  Mordaunt  to  let  me  stay  with  the  two  chil- 
dren till  she  came.  For  my  heart  was  very  sore  at  leav- 
ing the  little  sickly  thing  I  had  learnt  to  love  so;  I 
wanted  to  tell  the  new  woman  all  about  his  food,  and  what 
he  liked,  and  what  he  did  not  like,  and  a  hundred  other 
little  things  that  no  one  knew  of  but  myself.  I  wanted 
to  get  a  sight  of  the  woman,  too,  and  see  what  she  was 
like,  for  though  I  would  have  stood  on  my  head  at  any 
time  for  Mordaunt,  I  had  no  trust  in  him.  I  knew  him 
to  be  selfish,  vain,  and  headstrong,  and  a  man,  too,  that 
would  stick  at  nothing  to  gain  his  purpose;  and  so,  you 
see,  I  was  afraid  for  the  child,  afraid  of  the  sort  of 
woman  he  might  have  got.  For  I  knew  he  hated  the 
child,  hated  the  very  sight  of  it,  and  would  have  been 
glad  enough  if  any  nurse  that  had  it  had  starved  it  to 
death,  or  killed  it  with  gin  or  brandy,  or  with  the  neg- 
lect that  in  this  case  would  have  done  equally  well. 
And  so  I  wanted  to  see  the  woman  and  talk  to  her. 

She  came  in  about  five — a  fat  woman  with  a  hard,  red 
face.  I  took  a  dislike  to  her  the  moment  I  saw  her,  and 
she  to  me,  I  think,  for  she  sniffed  at  me  with  her  nose 
very  high.  The  housekeeper  showed  her  in,  and  intro- 
duced her  as  Mrs.  Grace,  and  after  a  little  left  us 
together  with  the  children. 

"  'Are  we  all  going  to  live  together  here?  A  kind  of 
happy  family?'  she  asked  with  a  snort,  as  she  laid  her 
bonnet  on  the  chest  of  drawers. 

"'Oh,  no,'  I  said.  'land  little — Guy  are  going  to 
the  old  nursery  at  the  other  end  of  the  house.' 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         299 

'Then,  what  are  you  doing  here,  pray?'  she  asked, 
as  sharp  as  vinegar. 

"  'I  was  looking  after  Gerard  till  you  came.' 
'  'I  see,'  she  said,  'and  now  that  I  have  come,  per- 
haps you  will  leave  me  to  put  the  room  to  rights. ' 

"'Oh,  certainly,'  I  said,  stiffly;  'I  have  no  wish  to 
stay  here. ' 

"I  caught  up  the  child,  and  was  moving  out  when  she 
stopped  me. 

"  'So  you  are  to  be  head  nurse,  and  I  the  underling,' 
she  said.  'H'm!  a  pretty  state  of  things,  indeed!' 

"'There  is  no  head  nurse,'  I  explained;  'we  each 
have  our  own  child  to  look  after. ' 

'Yes,'  she  snorted,  'you  takes  the  eldest  one,  while 
a  respectable  woman  like  me  has  to  put  up  with  a  half- 
fledged  brat  of  a  thing  like  this!' 

'  'I  have  always  had  the  eldest  one,'  I  said,  with  per- 
fect truth. 

"  'Well,  off  you  go,  you  and  your  eldest  one,  and, 
leave  me  to  mine.  Lord!  what  a  little  wretch  it  is!' 

"It  made  me  miserable  to  hear  the  woman  talk  like 
this,  for  I  feared  it  boded  no  good  for  the  poor  little 
thing  I  was  leaving  with  her;  so  at  the  door  I  stopped, 
and  half  turned  back. 

"  'Mrs.  Grace,'  I  said,  timidly,  for  the  woman's  man- 
ner frightened  me.  'I  should  like  to  tell  you  one  or  two 
things  about  little — Gerard's  food.  You  see,  he  is  so 
dreadfully  delicate  that  the  least  thing  upsets  him.' 

'  'Hoity-toity!'  she  cried,  flaring  up  as  red  as  fire  all 
in  a  moment;  'so  you're  beginning  the  head-nurse  busi- 
ness already!  Let  me  tell  you  this,  my  fine  miss,  I  was 
a  nurse  before  ever  you  were  born,  and  a  better  one 


300  THE    PERILS    OF    JOSEPHINE 

than  you  will  ever  be,  if  you  live  to  be  a  hundred.     The 
idea,  indeed!     Teaching  your  betters  their  business!' 

'  'I  had  no  idea  of  teaching  you  anything,'  I  said, 
'not  even  manners.  But,  of  course,  I  know  the  child 
better  than  you  can,  though  you  are  sixty  years  old.' 

"She  was  not  more  than  five-and-forty  at  the  out- 
side, and  she  flew  into  a  perfect  fury. 

"  'Get  out  of  my  nursery,  you  hussy!'  she  cried,  'you 
and  your  ribbons  and  frills  and  furbelows.  It's  easy 
seeing  there's  no  mistress  in  this  house,  with  the  likes  of 
you  about!' 

"I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  caught  up  the  new 
Guy  and  passed  out  into  the  passage. 

"We  were  not  great  friends  after  that,  as  may  be 
imagined,  and  kept  clear  of  one  another  on  our  own 
account,  for  there  were  no  longer  any  orders  to  keep 
apart.  We  were  allowed  to]  go  where  we  liked,  and  to 
talk  to  whom  we  liked,  without  question  from  any.  And 
there  were  no  more  veils.  The  children  went  out  with 
their  natural  faces  to  the  air,  and  folks  came  and  looked 
at  them,  and  passed  remarks  after  their  kind.  And 
these  remarks  were  always  to  the  same  tune:  what  a 
splendid,  handsome  young  fellow  Master  Guy  was,  and 
so  like  his  father,  and  what  a  poor,  miserable-looking 
wretch  the  other  was;  and  what  a  mercy  it  was  that 
Master  Guy  was  heir  to  the  place  and  property,  and  not 
the  little  cross-eyed  atomy  with  the  white  face.  And 
Mordaunt  loved  to  hear  them  talk  so,  and  would  smile 
and  strut  and  hoist  the  boy  on  to  his  shoulders,  and  walk 
about  the  room  with  him,  while  the  child  crowed  with  joy. 

"  'A  proper  De  Metrier  in  face  and  limb,  thank  God!' 
he  would  say,  piously.  But  at  the  other  he  never  looked. 

"But  as  to  Mrs.  Grace,  the  new  nurse,  I  am  bound  to 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         301 

say  this,  that  little  Gerard — that  is  the  one  that  had  been 
Guy — grew  and  flourished  properly  under  her;  and  I  felt 
sorry  for  the  wicked  things  I  had  thought  about  her 
when  she  came,  and  tried  to  make  friends,  and  wipe  out 
the  memory  of  our  first  falling  out.  But  she,  poor 
woman !  hated  the  sight  of  me  from  first  to  last,  so  that 
after  a  time  I  gave  up  trying,  and  just  left  her  alone. 

"Six  months  after  the  coming  of  Mrs.  Grace,  Mor- 
daunt  came  up  one  day  to  the  nursery,  and  said  quite 
quick  and  sudden: 

"  'Susan,  I  have  got  a  husband  for  you.' 

"And  I,  a  poor  fool,  went  straight  down  on  the  floor, 
and  clutched  him  by  the  knees,  and  prayed  him,  for  the 
love  of  God,  not  to  send  me  away. 

"  'What  do  I  want  with  a  husband?'  I  moaned. 

"  'Everything,'  he  said,  shortly.  'Come,  Susan, 
don't  be  a  fool.  Many  a  girl  in  your  place  would  think 
herself  pretty  lucky  to  get  one.' 

"  'And  am  I  to  go  away?'  I  asked,  feeling  that  I 
might  as  well  die  at  once. 

"  'Not  a  bit  of  it,'  said  he;  'at  least  not  far.  I  am 
going  to  let  you  have  the  Manor  House  at  the  other  end 
of  the  park.  It  is  well  furnished  and  a  good  house,  and 
you  can  have  as  much  firewood  as  you  want,  and  as  much 
farm  produce — eggs,  butter,  and  milk — as  either  of  you 
can  carry  from  the  Home  Farm  each  day.  And  besides 
this,  I  will  go  on  paying  you  your  present  wages  as  long 
as  I  live.  What  more  can  any  girl  want?" 

"I  said  nothing,  but  sat  looking  miserably  out  of  the 
window,  for  I  knew  very  well  what  I  wanted  more. 

"  'Well,'  he  said,  turning  my  face  round  so  that  I  had 
to  look  at  him,  'haven't  you  anything  to  say?' 


302  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"  'No,1  I  answered,  dully,  'nothing.  When  have  I 
got  to  go?' 

"  'Well,  the  sooner*  the  better,  I  think,'  he  said;  'but 
you  don't  even  ask  who  the  man  is.  Did  any  one  ever 
see  such  a  girl?' 

"As  if  it  made  any  difference  to  me  who  it  was! 

"  'Who  is  it?'  I  asked,  seeing  he  expected  me  to 
ask  it. 

"  'It  is  Henry  Beddington,  the  house  carpenter.  He 
is  a  capital  fellow,  steady  and  respectable,  and  getting 
good  wages;  and  I  doubt  not  but  he  will  make  you  a 
very  excellent  husband.' 

"  'And  I  will  make  him  a  very  excellent  wife,  I  sup- 
pose,' I  said,  bitterly. 

"  'Yes,'  he  said,  'I  see  no  reason  in  the  world  why 
you  should  not.' 

"  'No,  Mordaunt,  no,'  I  cried,  going  down  all  in  a 
heap  on  the  floor  once  more.  'I  can't  do  it,  I  really 
can't!  Don't  send  me  away!  For  God's  sake,  don't 
send  me  away! 

"He  had  been  laughing  and  very  merry  up  to  this, 
but  now,  at  the  sight  of  my  tears,  his  face  hardened,  and 
three  straight  lines  came  out  between  his  eyes. 

"  'My  dear  girl,'  he  said,  slowly,  with  a  pause  be- 
tween each  word,  'you  are  talking  like  a  fool.  It  has  to 
be  done,  as  you  yourself  must  see,  and  there's  an  end 
of  it.' 

"Of  course  he  got  his  way;  he  always  did.  We  were 
married  that  week,  and  drove  up  to  our  new  home  in  one 
of  the  new  farm  carts — a  bright  blue  one,  with  bright 
red  wheels,  I  remember — amid  a  deal  of  cheering  and 
holloaing.  But  as  to  myself,  I  felt  like  going  to  my 
grave. 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         303 

"However,  I  was  strong,  and  strength  and  youth  will 
live  down  most  things;  and  after  a  time  I  got  used  to 
it,  and  to  Henry  Beddington,  too,  after  a  fashion.  •  And 
one  of  us  would  fetch  the  farm  stuff  every  morning  in  a 
basket,  as  much  as  we  could  carry  in  a  single  journey, 
and  did  so  till  Mordaunt's  death,  and  afterwards,  too,  in 
Guy's  time. 

"There  were  four  children,  and  they  came  as  quick  as 
quick;  and  two  months  after  the  last  was  born,  Bedding- 
ton  died.  He  was  never  strong — a  poor  little  fellow 
with  a  weak  chest,  and  always  coughing,  but  a  true  man 
and  honest,  and  with  a  heart  of  pure  gold.  He  was  a 
world  too  good  for  me  from  first  to  last,  and  every  one 
knew  it,  too,  except  himself.  But  I  honestly  believe  the 
poor  fellow  loved  me  so  blindly  that  he  thought  that  in 
my  hands  wrong  must  turn  to  right,  whether  it  would  or 
no. 

"However,  he  died,  and  I  was  left  with  the  four 
boys,  and  there  I  lived  for  twenty  years.  And  at  the 
end  of  twenty  years  Mordaunt  sent  for  me  to  be  house- 
keeper at  the  Abbey.  George,  the  eldest  boy,  was 
underkeeper  now,  and  living  in  the  Manor  House;  and 
Bill  and  John,  the  two  next,  the  Squire  had  sent  out  to 
India,  and  started  them  well  in  life;  and  the  youngest, 
Henry,,  was  carpenter  now  at  the  house  in  his  father's 
place. 

"So  I  went,  not  very  willingly,  for  I  had  no  knowl- 
edge of  housekeeping,  but  the  Squire  wished  it,  and  that 
was  enough. 

"The  Squire  was  failing  fast,  so  all  men  said.  Free 
living  and  overmuch  claret  and  port  had  brought  him 
to  a  very  evil  state,  and  all  men  foretold  a  new  Squire 
before  the  years  were  many  more.  He  was  not  an  old 


304  THE    PERILS    OF   JOSEPHINE 

man,  either,  only  fifty-two,  and  as  merry  and  jolly  and 
handsome  in  face  as  ever;  but  he  walked  with  two  sticks, 
and  his  back  was  bent,  and  for  days  at  a  time  he  would 
lie  in  his  bed  and  groan,  for  the  touch  of  the  past  was  in 
his  joints. 

"Irr  those  days  I  had  not  yet  found  the  Lord,  and 
my  mind  was  still  full  of  wickedness  and  deceit,  and  I 
began  to  think  of  the  days  to  come,  and  of  how  I  should 
fare  under  the  reign  of  Master  Guy. 

"So,  when  I  had  been  three  years  at  the  Abbey,  and 
the  old  Squire — as  we  called  him  afterwards — began  to 
be  oftener  in  his  bed  than  out  of  it,  I  set  myself  to  think 
hard  how  I  could  make  my  position  firm,  and  put  the 
seal  of  truth  upon  the  tale  I  had  to  tell.  And  after  a 
week  of  thinking  I  found  a  way,  or  at  least  what  I  took 
to  be  a  way. 

"Mrs.  de  Metrier  had  had  different  doctors  when  Guy 
and  Gerard  were  born.  For  Guy  she  had  had  Dr.  Ben- 
son, and  for  the  other  Dr.  McCullum.  They  were  both 
Greystoke  men,  and  Benson  had  the  name  of  being  the 
best;  but  he  had  a  rough  kind  of  knock-me-down  man- 
ner, and  the  mistress  being  a  bit  frail,  and  quick  to  feel 
the  harshness  of  a  loud  voice,  took  a  feeling  against 
him,  and  when  Gerard  came  sent  for  Dr.  McCullum. 

"At  the  time  I  am  talking  of  we  had  a  doctor  of  our 
own  at  Benton,  and  the  Greystoke  men  came  no  more 
to  Selworth.  As  to  Benson  and  McCullum,  they  had 
both  long  since  moved  to  London,  where  they  were  said 
to  have  fine  practices.  I  found  their  addresses  out  of  a 
Medical  Directory  in  the  library,  and  wrote  to  each  of 
them  the  self-same  letter,  saying  that  the  Squire  was  ill 
and  fidgety  about  trifles,  and  moreover,  not  in  a  state  to 
put  pen  to  paper;  and  that  as  I  had  been  nurse  to  both 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         305 

his  sons,  he  had  told  me  to  write  and  find  out  certain 
things  that  were  a  trouble  to  his  memory.  He  wanted 
to  know  what  body  marks  the  boys  had  when  they  were 
born,  and  nothing  else  would  give  him  peace;  and  that 
if  they  would  write  to  me  their  recollections  of  the  child 
they  had  helped  into  the  world,  it  would  take  a  load  of 
worry  off  his  mind. 

"They  both  wrote  back  next  day,  and  their  letters 
are  in  the  box  with  the  other  papers,  marked  B  and  C. 
I  flattered  myself  that  with  their  letters  and  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham's I  was  fairly  safe,  and  so  in  the  end  it  proved.  My 
first  care  was  to  copy  all  three,  and  put  away  the  real 
ones  safely;  and  having  done  that,  I  sat  down  and 
waited  for  Mordaunt  to  die. 

"It  was  curious  to  mark  how  the  old  pride  held  him 
to  the  end.  He  sent  for  me  on  his  death-bed,  when  his 
breath  was  short  and  quick,  and  speaking  a  sheer  pain, 
and  he  sat  up  against  his  pillows  and  took  my  hand,  and 
said,  'Susan,  swear  by  all  that's  holy,  to  hide  the  truth 
about  the  boys. ' 

"And  I  said — God  forgive  me  for  my  hard,  wicked 
heart! — 'I  swear,  so  long,  that  is,  as  I  am  not  disturbed. 
But  if  they  meddle  with  me  I  must  see  to  myself.' 

"He  seemed  well  satisfied  with  this,  and  nodded  his 
head  and  closed  his  eyes,  waving  me  to  go  away.  And 
I  take  it  afterwards  he  put  his  word  upon  Guy  to  leave 
me  in  peace  for  my  life. 

"So  Mordaunt  died,  and  for  a  while  things  went  on  as 
before,  only  that  Guy  made  great  changes  in  the  servants, 
as  folks  do  when  they  step  into  the  shoes  that  have  been 
before  them.  To  me  he  said  nothing,  but  I  knew  he 
wished  me  away,  and  for  my  own  part  I  was  much  of  the 
same  mind;  so  one  morning  I  went  to  him  in  his  room, 


3o6  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

and  asked  to  go  back  to  the  Manor  House.  This  was 
not  more  than  a  month  after  the  old  Squire's  death,  and 
with  the  dead  man's  wishes  still  in  his  ears,  he  could  but 
say  'yes*  with  a  fair  grace.  Besides,  he  was  very  young 
at  the  time,  not  more  than  twenty-five,  and  he  knew  I 
had  been  his  nurse,  and  'no'  would  have  been  a  hard 
word  to  say. 

"So  back  I  went  to  the  Manor  House,  and  well 
enough  pleased  to  be  there,  too.  George  and  Henry 
had  lived  there  all  along,  while  I  was  up  at  the  Abbey. 
And  for  a  time  things  went  smoothly  enough,  and  the 
three  letters  lay  harmless  and  unheeded  in  my  box.  But 
the  trouble  came  before  long,  as  I  knew  full  well  it 
would.  During  the  old  Squire's  lifetime  I  had  always 
had  ^30  a  year  paid  me  quarterly  by  Mr.  Quayle,  the 
agent.  When  I  went  as  housekeeper,  of  course,  this 
stopped,  and  I  got  regular  wages  of  £50  a  year.  But 
now  when  the  first  quarter  came  round,  I  looked  in  vain 
for  my  money,  and  so,  after  waiting  a  week,  wrote  to 
Mr.  Quayle  to  let  me  have  it.  I  got  no  answer  for  two 
or  three  days,  and  then  a  stiff  business  letter  asking 
what  money  I  referred  to.  I  wrote  back  and  said  it  was 
the  £$0  I  had  had  every  year  for  the  last  twenty  years, 
and  would  he  send  me  the  first  quarter  at  once.  There 
was  a  wait  of  three  more  days,  and  then  another  letter, 
saying  he  had  had  no  instructions  from  Mr.  de  Metrier 
to  pay  me  ^30  a  year,  but  that  if  I  would  put  the  mat- 
ter right  with  the  young  Squire,  he  would,  of  course, 
send  me  the  money  at  once.  Then  I  saw  that  the  let- 
ters would  have  to  come  out  of  my  box,  but  for  a  month 
or  two  more  I  did  nothing,  not  wishing  to  make  trouble 
before  it  was  due.  And  the  Lord  knows  it  came  due 
quite  quickly  enough! 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         307 

"It  began  about  the  farm  stuff.  There  was  a  new 
bailiff  since  the  old  Squire's  death,  and  though  he 
allowed  George  or  Henry  or  myself  to  take  away  our 
basketful  every  morning,  I  could  see  it  went  sorely 
against  the  grain  with  him.  And  one  morning,  when  I 
went  as  usual  with  my  basket  in  my  hand,  he  told  me 
straight  that  I  could  have  no  more  without  direct  orders 
from  the  Squire.  I  said  never  a  word,  but  marched 
straight  away  home,  and  looked  up  the  copies  of  my 
three  letters.  And  that  afternoon  I  was  up  at  the  house 
asking  for  a  word  with  the  Squire. 

"I  knew  well  enough  how  it  had  all  come  about. 
The  priest  at  the  Abbey  at  that  time  was  Father  Harris, 
a  decent  man  enough,  I  make  no  doubt,  and  for  all  I 
know  a  good  one.  But  on  me  he  never  looked  kindly, 
partly  because  I  was  a  Protestant,  and  partly  because 
of  what  he  thought  he  knew  about  my  past.  With 
the  old  Squire,  Father  Harris  had  had  no  more  weight 
than  a  raindrop  has  with  an  oak,  but  with  the  young 
one  it  was  ^very  different.  He  told  him — as  I  heard 
afterwards — that  I  was  a  standing  reproach  to  the 
family;  and  that  it  was  a  scandalous  thing  that  I  should 
be  allowed  to  live  in  ease  and  comfort  inside  the  park  as 
the  price  of  my  past  iniquities,  when  there  were  plenty 
of  good,  respectable  Catholics  who  were  far  more  deserv- 
ing of  the  food  and  house  and  money  that  were  wasted 
upon  me.  And  that  this  was  not  only  the  priest's  opin- 
ion, I  knew  well  enough;  almost  every  one  about  the 
place  thought  the  same,  not  knowing  the  real  cause  of 
the  old  Squire  having  allowed  me  all  these  things,  but 
going  off  with  a  wholly  wrong  idea  from  the  start. 

"So  I  stood  outside  the  door  of  Master  Guy's  study, 
waiting  to  put  these  things  right. 


3o8  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"  'Good  evening,  Mrs.  Beddington,'  says  he,  looking 
not  over  comfortable,  I  thought.  'You  wished  to  see 
me,  I  believe. ' 

"  'Yes,  sir,'  says  I,  coming  straight  to  the  point.  'Do 
I  understand  that  I  am  to  have  no  more  allowance,  and 
no  more  farm  produce?" 

"He  fidgeted  queerly  with  the  paper-weights  on  his 
writing-table,  and  without  looking  up,  said: 

"  'I  can  see  no  real  reason  why  you  should  continue 
to  have  these  things,  Mrs.  Beddington.  If  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  you  have  only  been  six  years  in  all  in  the 
service  of  the  family,  while  for  twenty  years  you  have 
been  entirely  supported  by  the  estate.  I  think  the  bal- 
ance of  debt  lies  with  you.' 

"He  looked  up  with  a  smile,  with  his  handsome  head 
cocked  a  little  on  one  side.  I  looked  straight  into  his 
smiling  eyes,  and  said: 

"  'I  have  as  much  right  to  all  the  things  I've  had  as 
you  have  to  be  here,  sir. ' 

"He  laughed  outright  at  this,  but  with  a  touch  of 
awkwardness,  and  said: 

"  'Perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  well  for  all  parties  not 
to  go  into  that  question. ' 

"  'Why  not,  sir?"  I  asked,  coldly. 

"  'Because,'  says  he,  with  another  little  awkward 
laugh,  'the  grounds  on  which  your  rights  are  based  are 
scarcely  such  as  will  bear  scrutiny. ' 

"The  moment  for  which  I  had  been  waiting  had  come. 
I  looked  at  him  straight,  and  said : 

"  'No  more  will  yours,  sir.' 

"  'What  'do  you  mean?'  he  asked,  in  a  puzzled  way. 
I  think  he  thought  me  mad. 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         309 

"  'I  mean,'  I  said,  'that  this  place,  Selworth  Abbey, 
belongs  to  Guy  de  Metrier. ' 

"  'Yes,'  he  said,  pityingly,  'I  was  aware  of  that.' 

"  'And  you,  sir,  were  christened  Gerard  St.  Clair  de 
Metrier. ' 

"He  went  quite  white,  but  beyond  that  not  a  muscle 
of  his  face  changed.  He  smiled  up  at  me  the  same 
superior  smile  as  before,  and  said,  calmly: 

"  'Pray  explain  yourself,  Mrs.  Beddington.  You  are 
rather  mysterious.' 

"I  said  nothing,  but  pulled  out  letter  No.  i — Mrs. 
Graham's,  that  is — and  laid  it  on  the  table  before  him. 
He  read  it  through  without  a  word,  and  at  the  end  tossed 
it  across  the  table  to  me  contemptuously. 

"  'Pooh!'  he  said,  is  that  all?' 

"  'No,  sir,'  says  I,  'not  quite,'  and  gives  him  No. 
2 — Dr.  Benson's. 

"  'Any  more?'  he  said,  quietly,  when  he  had  finished. 
I  gave  him  Dr.  McCullum's,  and  he  read  that,  too,  as 
he  had  read  the  others,  calmly  and  without  a  word. 

"  'Well?'  he  said,  looking  up. 

"  'Well,  sir,'  said  I,  'those  letters  are  copies.  I  have 
the  originals  in  a  safe  place.  As  to  the  change  of 
babies,  I  did  it  myself.  There  is  no  doubt  about  that 
part  of  it;  you  are  Gerard  and  your  brother  is  Guy.' 

"For  at  least  five  minutes  after  that  there  was  not  a 
word  spoken  on  either  side.  He  sat  fingering  the  pens 
and  things,  and  I  stood  bolt  upright  before  him.  From 
the  picture  on  the  wall  behind  Guy's  shoulder,  Mor- 
daunt's  clear  grey  eyes  looked  straight  into  mine.  In 
the  days  that  were  long  past  I  had  learned  to  read  those 
eyes  like  an  open  book,  and  it  seemed  to  me  now  that 


3io  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

they  frowned  upon  me  angrily.  Presently  Guy  cleared 
his  throat  and  looked  up. 

"  'These  letters,'  he  said,  'may  be  genuine,  or  they 
may  be  forgeries;  your  statement  again  may  be  true,  or 
it  may  be  false.  We  will  not  go  into  that  question  now. 
I  imagine  you  have  brought  these  matters  forward 
because  of  the  stoppage  of  your  allowance,  and  your 
supply  of  farm  produce?' 

"I  bowed. 

"  'And  if  everything  was  continued  as  before,  you 
would  be  satisfied?' 

"  'Perfectly,  sir,'  I  said;  'that  is  all  I  ask.' 

"  'In  that  case,'  he  said,  rising,  'we  will,  if  you  please, 
consider  that  this  interview  has  never  taken  place.  I 
will  give  orders  for  everything  to  be  continued  as  it  was 
in  my  father's  time.' 

"Guy  was  as  good  as  his  word,  as  indeed  he  was 
bound  to  be.  I  went  back  to  the  Manor  House  for 
another  twenty-five  years,  and  the  world  went  round  as 
usual.  Guy  married,  and  the  children  were  born,  and 
eight  years  or  so  afterwards  Gerard  married.  A  glori- 
ous creature  was  his  wife,  but  she  died,  poor  thing!  soon 
after  her  little  girl  was  born.  And  Gerard  followed  her 
a  few  years  later. 

"So  there  was  a  new  rightful  owner  to  the  property 
— a  little,  penniless,  orphan  girl  that  no  one  had  ever 
seen.  Gerard  had  left  her  all  he  had  to  leave,  which 
was  in  truth  nothing,  for  he  had  fooled  away  all  that  had 
ever  been  his,  and  was  to  all  ends  a  beggar.  When  he 
died,  his  wife's  two  maiden  sisters  took  the  child,  and 
no  one  at  Selworth  bothered  their  heads  any  more 
about  her. 

"Then  at  last,  when  I  was  seventy  years  old,  and  the 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         311 

grave  and  judgment  in  plain  sight,  the  sins  of  the  past 
began  to  take  hold  of  me,  and  I  saw  all  my  awful  wick- 
edness in  its  true  light.  And  sometimes,  for  hours  at  a 
time,  I  would  writhe  upon  my  knees,  and  cry  out  to  the 
Lord  for  forgiveness.  And  all  the  while  I  was  doing  it, 
I  would  feel  what  a  pitiful  hypocrite  I  was,  for  though 
many  of  my  sins  were  past  recalling,  there  was  one  which 
could  be  put  right  by  a  word  from  me.  I  knew  Guy 
well  enough  by  this  time  to  know  that  he  was  as  bad  to 
cross  as  Mordaunt  had  been;  and  that  I  should  be 
turned  out  of  house  and  home  was  as  sure  as  death. 
This  is  a  hard  thing  for  an  old  woman  near  the  grave, 
who  wishes  to  end  her  days  in  peace,  and  the  struggle 
with  myself  and  with  the  old  wicked  love  of  ease  was 
not  won  in  a  day.  I  thought,  too,  in  all  honesty,  that 
he  might  kill  me.  I  remembered  Mrs.  Graham,  and  my 
horrid  doubts  about  her  end,  and  here  would  I  be  a 
greater  danger  and  harder  to  overcome  than  ever  poor 
Mrs.  Graham  had  been. 

"However,  one  day  the  little  good  that  was  in  me  got 
the  upper  hand,  for  my  heart  had  been  very  bad  that 
day,  and  I  felt  that  any  moment  I  might  find  myself  face 
to  face  with  God,  bearing  the  full  load  of  my  sins  upon 
my  head;  so  I  sent  a  note  by  Henry  to  the  Squire,  ask- 
ing him  to  come  up  and  see  me.  It  was  summer  time, 
when  the  days  were  long,  and  he  came  riding  up  that 
very  same  evening,  whistling  and  humming  as  gay  and 
chirpy  as  a  linnet.  But  he  neither  whistled  nor  hummed 
when  he  rode  away;  there  were  three  deep  lines  between 
his  eyes,  and  he  spurred  his  big  horse  cruelly  down  the 
track.  For  I  told  him,  as  plain  as  words  can  speak, 
that  I  would  hide  the  truth  no  longer,  not  if  I  died  in  the 
workhouse  for  it.  I  had  nothing  put  by;  all  that  I 


$12  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

might  have  saved  had  gone  out,  bit  by  bit,  to  the  two 
boys  in  India,  and  to  be  turned  off  meant  the  workhouse, 
sure  enough.  For  I  knew  right  well  that  Henry,  and 
George  with  his  wife  and  children,  would  go  out  of  Sel- 
worth  by  the  self-same  gate  as  shut  behind  me.  There 
would  be  no  mercy  shown.  Mercy  was  never  a  strong 
point  with  the  De  Metriers.  And  I  knew  all  this,  and 
for  all  I  knew  it,  faced  the  Squire  bravely,  while  he 
stormed  and  thundered  and  stamped  about  the  room. 

"There  was  one  chance  left  for  both  of  us.  If  Nor- 
man married  this  orphan  girl,  I  said,  I  would  be  content, 
and  hold  my  peace;  and  till  the  year's  end,  I  said,  I 
would  give  them  to  bring  this  about  by  hook  or  crook. 

"I  thought  at  one  time  Guy  would  have  struck  me 
down,  and  killed  my  secret  with  me  then  and  there,  but 
just  when  his  rage  was  at  its  hottest,  he  spun  on  his  heel 
and  flung  out  of  the  house,  leaving  me  sitting  by  the 
table,  white  and  trembling. 

"And  what  will  be  the  end  of  it,  God  knows!  I  am 
terribly  afraid  for  my  life;  and  for  fear  of  what  may 
overtake  me,  I  have  written  this  confession,  which,  with 
the  letters,  I  will  lock  up  in  a  box  and  entrust  to  my  son 
Henry,  to  be  given  with  his  own  hands  to  Miss  Josephine 
de  Metrier  in  the  case  of  my  death.  The  Lord  have 
mercy  on  my  soul  and  save  me  from  the  wrath  to  come!" 

This  was  the  end  of  the  Confession,  which  was  signed 
"Susan  Beddington,"  and  below  this  was  written: 

"Signed  by  Susan  Beddington,  this  day,  in  my  pres- 
ence, September  izth,  1857, 

"GEORGE  HOLLAIRE, 

"Rector  of  Benton" 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         313 

There  was  another  short  paper  with  the  others  in  the 
box,  which  took  up  the  story,  and  ended  it  in  a  fashion. 
It  began: 

"  Miss  JOSEPHINE, — Now  that  I  have  seen  and  known  you,  I 
must  add  a  few  lines  to  pray  your  forgiveness  for  the  terrible, 
wrong  I  have  done  you.  God  grant  it  may  yet  come  right!  Time 
after  time  I  have  given  the  Squire  another  week  to  bring  about 
the  marriage  between  you  and  Norman.  He  tells  me  each  time  it 
is  all  but  settled,  but  I  have  my  doubts. 

"  Be  good  to  my  sons,  who  have  never  known  anything  of  this, 
and  do  not  judge  Guy  too  hardly.  The  sin  was  his  father's,  not 
his.  Lady  Harriet  knows  nothing,  nor  yet  Claud  or  Sophie.  Nor- 
man did  not  at  first,  but  I  think  he  has  been  told.  The  priest,  I 
know,  has  been  told  all.  It  is  of  him  I  am  afraid.  If  you  were  a 
Catholic,  he  could  be  got  over  to  our  side,  but,  as  it  is,  he  will  fight 
to  the  death  before  Selworth  goes  to  a  Protestant.  Beware  of  him, 
he  is  a  dangerous  man,  and  can  twist  Guy  round  his  fingers.  God 
bless  you,  my  dear!  and  do  not  think  too  ungently  of  a  wicked  old 
woman  who  will  be  dead  before  this  can  ever  meet  your  eyes." 

The  only  other  two  papers  were  the  letters  marked  B 
and  C. 

The  first  was  from  Dr.  Benson. 

"DEAR  MADAM, — In  response  to  your  enquiries,  I  can  satisfy 
the  Squire's  mind  on  each  of  the  points  as  to  which  his  memory  is 
doubtful.  Guy,  the  eldest  boy,  had  no  distinguishing  marks  on  his 
body.  His  left  leg  was  of  course,  considerably  shorter  than  the 
other,  and  even  at  that  early  age  there  was  a  very  pronounced 
squint  in  his  eyes.  Both  hands  were  perfect. 

"  I  remain,  dear  madam,  yours  to  command, 

"JOSEPH  BENSON." 

The  other  was  very  similar. 

"  MADAM, — My  memory  is  perfectly  clear  as  to  the  condition 
of  Mrs.  de  Metrier's  second  child  at  the  time  of  birth.  He  was  as 
fine  a  baby  as  I  have  ever  seen,  and  perfectly  formed,  with  the 
exception  of  a  little  finger  missing  on  the  left  hand.  The  finger 
was  not  absolutely  missing,  but  was  only  a  stump  as  far  as  the  first 


314  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

joint,  and  nailless.  As  to  the  eldest  child,  I  can  say  nothing,  aa 
you  will  remember  it  was  Dr.  Benson  who  attended  Mrs.  de 
Metrier  in  her  first  confinement. 

"  I  am,  madam,  your  obedient  servant, 

"  JAMES  MCCULLUM." 

I  slipped  the  papers  gently  back  into  the  box,  turned 
the  key,  and  put  the  box  upon  the  chest  of  drawers. 
Then  I  got  up,  and  stared  down  into  the  red,  glowing 
embers  of  the  fire. 

"Well?"  said  Beatrice,  with  a  stretch  and  a  mighty 
yawn.  "Do  you  know  all  about  it  now?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  know  all  about  it  now." 

"You  look  dreadfully  solemn  over  it  all;  what's  it  all 
about?" 

"Mostly  about  my  father  when  he  was  young,"  I 
said. 

"Oh,  that  sounds  rather  interesting.  I  suppose  we 
must  go  and  dress  now.  I  heard  the  gong  a  long  time 
ago." 

They  strolled  off  down  the  long  passage  to  their 
rooms,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

My  first  feeling,  and  my  strongest  at  that  time,  was 
undoubtedly  one  of  intense  pity  for  my  Uncle  Guy  and 
all  his  family.  If  I  had  acted  on  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment, I  should  have  written  off  to  him  then  and  there, 
saying  that  the  whole  thing  was  wrong  and  a  mistake, 
and  that  as  far  as  I  was  concerned  I  wanted  nothing,  and 
would  much  rather  that  everything  went  on  just  as  it 
always  had  gone.  I  thought  of  all  the  numberless  kind- 
nesses I  had  received  from  them,  of  my  aunt  with  her 
frail,  feeble  health,  and  the  little  old-world  airs  and 
affectations  she  loved  so  well,  of  Sophie  turned  out  of 
her  home  by  one  on  whom  she  had  showered  all  the  love 


SUSAN   CROSSLEY'S   CONFESSION         315 

and  kindness  of  her  nature,  and  I  felt  that  of  all  the 
mean  wretches  that  lived,  I  should  be  the  meanest  if  I 
was  the  cause  of  bringing  such  things  upon  them.  And 
then  I  thought  of  Sydney,  and  of  how  nice  it  would  be 
not  to  be  a  drag  and  a  burden  to  him,  but  to  come  to 
him  with  something  in  my  hand  that  might  make  up  in 
part  for  my  own  unworthiness.  But  then  again,  did  he 
really  want  to  marry  me?  He  had  been  so  strangely 
stiff  and  stand-offish  lately,  and  then  there  was  that 
extraordinary  remark  of  his  about  our  not  being  en- 
gaged! Was  it  simply  that  he  was  tired  of  me,  or  liked 
some  one  else  better,  or  was  it  only  jealousy  about  the 
Duke?  I  looked  into  the  red-hot  coals  for  an  answer, 
but  found  none;  but  I  found  there  the  outline  of  an  idea, 
and  as  it  grew  and  flourished  in  my  head  I  smiled  to 
myself,  well  pleased. 

My  watch  pointed  to  eight,  but  no  one  minded  one 
being  late  at  Ashby,  so  I  dashed  at  my  writing-table, 
and  scribbled  off  a  line  to  Sydney: 

"Come  up  to-morrow:  I  want  to  see  you  particularly." 

Then  I  dressed,  and  tore  down  to  dinner,  three  steps 
at  a  time,  slipping  my  note  into  the  letter-box  as  I 
passed  through  the  hall.  The  post  went  out  at  eight, 
but  there  were  usually  a  few  minutes'  law  given  for  the 
sake  of  late,  eccentric  people  like  myself. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

WHAT   CAME   OF  THE   CONFESSION 

"\  T  EXT  morning  the  whole  world  was  white  with 
snow — three  inches  of  it  at  least — the  first  real 
winter  we  had  had.  Great  fires  blazed  in  all  the  grates, 
and  the  robins — bound,  I  suppose,  by  the  laws  of  custom 
and  of  Christmas  cards — came  hopping  round  outside 
the  dining-room  window  in  search  of  hospitality,  which — 
poor  things! — they  got  without  stint. 

Sydney  came  up  about  twelve,  trudging  through  the 
snow  in  thick  shooting  boots  and  gaiters.  I  waylaid 
him  in  the  hall,  and  beckoned  to  him  to  hold  his 
tongue  and  follow  me  into  the  library,  for  I  knew  the 
others  would  all  rush  garrulously  out  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  and  upset  all  my  deep-laid  plot.  Sydney,  looking 
rather  mystified,  and  very  solemn,  shook  himself  clear 
of  snow  like  a  wet  dog,  and  followed  me  meekly.  In  the 
library  we  were  likely  to  be  left  in  peace,  for  the  whole 
family  was  essentially  gregarious,  and  hated  nothing 
more  than  solitude,  except  silence.  At  the  present  mo- 
ment I  knew  them  to  be  safely  collected  in  the  drawing- 
room,  working  feverishly  for  the  Greystoke  bazaar,  and 
as  usual,  talking  in  chorus.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have 
been  doing  the  same,  and  for  that  very  reason,  of  course, 
I  was  not.  It  was  most  unusual  for  me  at  any  time  to  be 
doing  what  I  ought. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me  about  something?"  Sydney 


WHAT    CAME   OF   THE   CONFESSION      317 

said,  after  we  had  both  selected  comfortable  chairs. 
There  was  a  certain  out-of-the-way  look  on  his  face,  I 
thought.  Was  it  anxiety  or  curiosity,  or  what?  Was  it 
hope,  or  was  it  fear? 

"Yes,"  I  said,  rubbing  my  chin,  and  looking  up  at 
the  ceiling  reflectively.  There  was  a  long  pause.  "I 
wanted  to  ask  you,"  I  said,  slowly,  "whether  you 
thought  it  would  be  right  for  me  to  write  to  Uncle  Guy 
for  some  money.  You  see  I  must  tip  the  servants  here, 
and  I  literally  have  not  got  a  penny." 

He  looked  very  surprised. 

"Oh,  is  that  all!"  he  said,  with  an  odd  little  laugh. 
"No,  I  should  certainly  not  write.  You  must  let  me 
advance  you  whatever  you  want." 

"But  you  are  not  a  relation,"  I  said.  "I  certainly 
can't  let  you  do  that.  I  might  as  well  ask  the  Duke." 

"Hardly  that, "  he  muttered.  "You  do  know  me  a 
little  better  than  you  know  him." 

"Oh,  I  don't  see  much  difference." 

"Don't  you?"  he  said,  shortly.    "No,  I  daresay  not." 

Then,  after  a  moment,  he  added: 

"Then  your  message  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  con- 
tents of  the  red  box?" 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  in  great  surprise.  "Why  should 
it?" 

"What  was  inside  it?"  There  was  open  curiosity  in 
his  voice  now. 

"Oh,  a  long  rigmarole,  all  about  Mrs.  Beddington's 
younger  days.  Nothing  that  you  would  care  to  know." 

"Then  there  was  nothing  in  it  that  affects  you  in  any 
way?" 

"Good  gracious,  no!  What  an  extraordinary  idea! 
Why  should  there  be?" 


3i8  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  But  I  can't  quite  see  the  object 
of  giving  you  the  box  if  there  was  nothing  in  it  of  inter- 
est to  you." 

"I  don't  say  there  wasn't.  I  say  there  was  nothing 
that  affects  me  in  any  way." 

"Nothing  that  will  make  any  difference  to  your  life?" 

"No,  nothing." 

Sydney  got  up,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  looking  straight  before  him.  Then 
suddenly,  before  I  knew  what  he  was  up  to,  he  had 
slipped  into  my  chair  by  the  side  of  me,  and  had  his  arm 
round  my  waist. 

"Joe,  my  little  darling,"  he  said,  "I  am  so  glad!" 

"Not  so  fast,"  I  cried,  jumping  up;  "you  take  too 
much  for  granted,  my  friend." 

Poor  fellow!  he  looked  dreadfully  crestfallen. 

"What  do  I  take  for  granted?"  he  asked,  sheepishly. 

"Why,  everything.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  not  your 
darling,  and  in  the  second  place,  you  have  no  business 
to  put  your  arm  round  my  waist.  We  are  not  engaged!" 

"Joe,"  he  said,  simply,  "will  you  marry  me?  " 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  will,"  I  said.  "You  have 
been  extremely  disagreeable  lately,  not  to  say  horrid!" 

"I  have  been  worried,"  he  said,  "and  anxious  about 
several  things.  It  was  not  my  fault,  Joe,  honestly  it 
was  not." 

"But  you  told  the  Duchess  we  were  not  engaged." 

"I  had  a  reason  for  doing  that;  I  will  tell  you  about 
it  some  day.  But  it  was  not  because  I  didn't  want  to  be. 
I  can  tell  you  that  much  now." 

"Are  you  really  sure  you  love  me?"  I  asked,  doubt- 
fully. 

For  a  minute  or  so  he  made  no  answer.     When  he 


WHAT   CAME   OF   THE   CONFESSION      319 

did,  it  was  so  emphatic  a  one  that  it  was  some  moments 
before  I  could  get  my  breath  again.  As  soon  as  I  could 
speak,  I  put  exactly  the  same  question  to  him  again,  for 
no  particular  reason  that  I  know  of,  except  to  prove  the 
perversity  of  woman. 

"But  do  you  really  love  me?" 

"Well,"  he  said,  laughing,  "if  you  still  have  any 
doubts,  I  can  only  repeat — " 

"No,  no,"  I  said.  "Sit  down  quietly,  for  goodness 
sake!  What  I  want  to  know  is,  would  you  marry  me 
whatever  I  had  done?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  will  marry  you  whatever 
ghastly  crime  you  may  have  committed." 

"Even  if  I  have  deceived  you?" 

"Even  if  your  hair  is  a  wig,  and  your  complexion  put 
on  with  a  brush,  and  your  figure  stuffed  with  sawdust." 

"Then,"  I  said,  solemnly,  "I  have  deceived  you." 

He  did  not  look  the  least  alarmed. 

"Really?"  he  said.  "Will  you  undeceive  me  now, 
then?" 

"Yes,  I  will.  There  was  something  in  the  box  that 
affected  me." 

"What?" 

"Well,  Mrs.  Beddington  says  my  father  was  the  eldest 
son,  and  the  place  really  belongs  to  me." 

"Josephine,"  he  said,  looking  as  solemn  as  twenty- 
four  judges,  "you  should  have  told  me  this  before." 

"No,  I  should  not,"  I  said,  putting  my  two  hands  on 
his  shoulders;  "and  don't  call  me  Josephine;  it's  rude. " 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Marry  you,"  I  said,  "first.  You  know  you  prom- 
ised you  would;  you  can't  back  out  now.  After  that,  I 
shall  think." 


320  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

For  at  least  five  minutes  Sydney  paced  up  and  down 
the  room  like  a  wild  beast,  then  he  said,  suddenly: 

"Do  you  think  it's  true?" 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "I  don't  think  there's  the  slightest 
doubt  about  it!" 

"Let  me  see  the  papers,  will  you?" 

"Yes,  I  will  get  the  box." 

For  the  rest  of  the  morning  he  sat  poring  over  all  the 
papers  I  had  read  the  night  before.  That  brought  us  on 
to  luncheon  time.  Just  before  we  went  in  I  whispered 
to  him:  "Will  you  tell  them  about  our  engagement?  It 
will  look  so  odd  unless  you  do." 

"All  right!"  he  said,  "if  you  like." 

So,  in  the  middle  of  luncheon,  after  the  servants  had 
left  the  room,  Sydney,  looking  remarkably  foolish,  said: 
"Duchess,  I  have  an  announcement  to  make  to  you. 
Miss  de  Metrier  and  I  are  going  to  get  married. "  Upon 
which  the  whole  family  rose  from  their  apple-tart,  and 
kissed  me  without  ceasing  for  five  minutes — all  except 
the  Duke,  and  he  couldn't  very  well,  poor  man.  And 
then  such  a  chorus  of  questions  as  arose.  Did  Mr.  de 
Metrier  know  of  it?  And  wouldn't  he  be  pleased?  And 
what  would  poor  Mr.  Norman  think?  They  were  afraid 
he  would  not  be  quite  so  pleased,  from  what  they  had 
heard.  All  of  which  questions  I  cunningly  avoided  by 
means  of  convenient  blushes.  And  then  more  questions: 
When  was  it  to  be?  And  where?  And  who  were  to  be 
my  bridesmaids?  They  would  positively  never  speak  to 
me  again  till  the  day  I  died  if  I  didn't  ask  all  three  of 
them  to  be  bridesmaids. 

I  was  very  glad  when  it  was  all  over. 

And  now,  knowing  the  state  of  things,  the  girls  were 
just  as  openly  anxious  to  leave  Sydney  and  me  alone  as 


WHAT   CAME   OF   THE   CONFESSION      321 

before  they  had  been  to  do  the  opposite.  So,  instead  of 
asking  me  what  I  was  going  to  do,  and  suggesting  half  a 
dozen  different  plans  at  once,  as  generally  happened 
after  luncheon,  they  bustled  out  of  the  drawing-room 
with  much  meaning,  one  after  the  other,  leaving  us 
alone  in  our  glory. 

"I  will  walk  back  with  you,  Sydney,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you  would.  There  are  sev- 
eral things  we  must  talk  over." 

Out  in  the  park  it  was  better.  We  could  talk  openly 
there  and  freely,  without  fear  of  screens  and  portieres 
and  soft-footed  servants. 

"Have  you  thought  what  you  are  going  to  do?"  Syd- 
ney asked,  when  we  were  clear  of  the  garden. 

"I  .have  thought  what  I  am  not  going  to  do,"  I 
answered,  "and  that  is  anything  which  will  in  the  slight- 
est degree  interfere  with  Uncle  Guy's  possession  of  Sel- 
worth.  It  has  been  his  home  for  over  fifty  years  now, 
and  I  should  be  &pig  to  try  and  turn  him  out  because  of 
a  crack-brained  fancy  of  his  father's." 

Sydney  laughed.  "That  is  rather  woman's  logic," 
he  said.  "But  apart  from  that,  do  you  really  think  that 
he  and  his  deserve  much  consideration  at  your  hands?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  I  answered,  stoutly.  "He  has  always 
been  kindness  itself  to  me." 

"H'm!"he  said;  "how  about  that  chestnut  mare,  and 
the  burning  of  the  Manor  House,  and  one  or  two  things 
that  Master  Norman  had  a  hand  in?" 

"I  don't  believe  for  a  minute  that  Uncle  Guy  knew 
anything  at  all  about  the  fire  at  the  Manor  House;  and 
as  to  Maid  Marion  bolting,  it  was  a  pure  accident,  owing 
to  my  bad  hands.  She  was  as  quiet  as  a  lamb,  really." 

"I  took  the  trouble,"  said  Sydney,  slowly,  "to  make 


322  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

some  enquiries  through  a  friend  of  mine  at  Newmarket, 
and  I  heard  from  him  that  the  mare  invariably  bolted  if 
there  was  anything  behind  her,  and  had  always  to  be 
exercised  alone  in  consequence." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  I  said.  "Anyhow, 
Uncle  Guy  knew  nothing  about  it.  Why,  he  let  Sophie 
ride  her  home." 

"Yes,  but  alone." 

"Oh,  that's  all  nonsense.  The  whole  thing  was 
entirely  my  bad  riding." 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  said,  laughing;  "we  won't 
quarrel  about  it.  But  in  the  meantime,  what  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"Well,  I  thought  that  I  might  ask  Uncle  Guy  to  allow 
me  so  much  a  year — just  enough  for  us  to  live  on,  and 
in  return  I  would  give  him  the  papers." 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "that's  not  a  bad  idea.  It  would  be 
a  blessing  to  have  enough  to  let  us  live  in  the  old  coun- 
try. America  is  right  enough  for  a  man,  even  though  he 
goes  there  with  an  empty  pocket,  but  it  is  altogether  a 
different  matter  when  he  proposes  taking  a  poor  little 
Dryad  with  him.  It  is  a  bit  rough  on  the  Dryad." 

"Is  that  why  you  have  been  behaving  in  this  extraor- 
dinary way  lately?" 

"No;  I  have  been  behaving  in  this  extraordinary  way, 
as  you  call  it,  for  quite  a  different  reason." 

"Were  you  jealous  of  the  Duke?" 

"No,  I  was  not  even  jealous  of  the  Duke,  don't  you 
flatter  yourself ,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"Then,  what  was  it?" 

"I  think  you  know  pretty  well  without  my  telling  you." 

"Yes,  I  know,  you  old  stupid!  It  was  because  you 
guessed  what  was  inside  that  box." 


WHAT   CAME   OF   THE   CONFESSION      323 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "I  was  afraid  my  little  Dryad  might 
think  I  was  a  fortune-hunter  instead  of  being  merely  a 
Dryad-hunter.  But  now  that  you  are  going  to  give  it  all 
up,  it's  all  right,  and  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid  of  you  any 
more." 

We  were  leaning  over  a  rough-shaped  oak  rail,  bor- 
dering one  of  the  woods  that  fringed  the  park.  It  was 
a  typical  Christmas  evening — long  past  Christmas,  it  is 
true,  but  still  redolent  of  peace  and  good-will  to  all  men. 
The  freshly  fallen  snow  lay  white  and  clean  as  a  new- 
washed  sheet,  the  sky  was  pure  and  cloudless,  and  not 
the  faintest  breath  of  wind  stirred  the  frosty  air.  The 
silence  was  intense — vast  and  limitless — and  I  think  the 
witchery  of  the  moment  took  hold  of  both  our  souls. 
We  wasted  nothing  in  words — words  would  have  been  an 
outrage,  a  desecration  of  the  glories  of  those  moments. 
And  for  my  own  part,  no  words  that  ever  were  framed 
by  poet  could  have  given  shape  to  the  immense  happi- 
ness that  was  welling  up  in  my  heart  on  that  evening. 
Words  are  cumbersome,  pompous,  inadequate;  how  can 
they  cope  with  the  divinity  of  thought?  What  words 
could  draw  the  shadowiest  picture  of  our  feelings  that 
night  as  we  walked  home  together  over  the  smooth, 
crunching  snow  with  the  "myriad  eyes  of  Heaven"  speck- 
ing the  inky  sky  overhead.  And  if  there  were  such 
words,  would  any  one  care  to  write  them  for  the  inspec- 
tion of  the  world?  Such  things  are  sacred — sacred  to 
the  library  of  the  mind,  where,  among  the  dusty  volumes 
of  memory,  sweetness  and  melancholy  rub  shoulders  so 
strangely  on  every  shelf. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

UNCLE   GUY   MAKES  A   MOVE 

TT  was  arranged  that  Sydney  should  write  to  my  uncle, 
•*•  telling  him  of  the  papers  in  my  possession,  and  ask- 
ing him  what  he  proposed  doing  in  the  matter.  He  was 
also  going  to  arrange  that  the  Morrises  should  'not  be 
brought  up  before  the  magistrates  for  another  week,  as 
the  fear  of  what  disclosures  they  might  make  would  be 
likely  to  help  Uncle  Guy  towards  a  reasonable  frame  of 
mind.  Norman  and  Father  Boyle,  we  learnt,  had  left 
Selworth  for  London. 

It  was  nearly  a  week  before  he  received  an  answer, 
and  then  it  was  only  half  an  answer.  My  uncle  said 
that  the  allegations  contained  in  Sydney's  letter  were  so 
extraordinary  that  time  must  be  given  him  to  think  the 
matter  over.  Would  Sydney  send  him  the  papers  or 
copies  of  them? 

Sydney  wrote  back  and  said  that  he  feared  it  was  im- 
possible at  present  to  procure  copies  of  the  papers,  but 
that  there  appeared  to  be  no  shadow  of  doubt  that  they 
were  in  perfect  order,  and  so  complete  a  chain  of  evi- 
dence as  could  scarcely  fail  to  ensure  the  result  of  any 
appeal  to  law. 

To  this  there  was  no  reply,  and  after  a  few  days, 
Sydney  wrote  again,  begging  for  a  definite  proposal  of 
some  sort,  as  Miss  de  Metrier's  position  was  naturally 
an  uncomfortable  one,  On  the  second  day  Uncle  Guy 

324 


UNCLE   GUY   MAKES   A    MOVE.  325 

replied  that  at  the  end  of  a  week  he  would  make  a  pro- 
posal which  he  had  little  doubt  would  satisfy  all  parties 
concerned. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  Morrises  were  had  up  before  the 
magistrates,  charged  with  trespassing  in  Selworth  Park 
in  search  of  game,  and  with  feloniously  assaulting  and 
wounding  the  Honourable  Sydney  Grayle,  and  lastly  with 
arson  and  attempted  murder,  in  that  they  did,  on  the 
seventeenth  day  of  January,  wilfully  and  maliciously  set 
fire  to  the  premises  known  as  the  old  Manor  House,  Sel- 
worth Park.  I  had  the  whole  thing  from  Sydney.  My 
name  was  kept  entirely  out  of  the  business,  but  Sydney, 
of  course,  had  to  give  evidence.  The  charge  of  arson 
was  unsupported  by  direct  evidence,  but  undeterred  by 
this,  the  magistrates  remanded  all  three  Morrises  to  take 
their  trial  at  the  Greystoke  Quarter-Sessions. 

Still  there  came  no  answer  from  Uncle  Guy,  and  when 
a  second  letter  was  equally  ignored,  Sydney  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  up  to  London  and  beard  my  uncle  in  his  very 
den.  What  success  awaited  him  there  may  be  best 
judged  from  his  own  letter: 

"  My  DARLING  LITTLE  DRYAD— I  arrived  in  London  yester- 
day about  noon,  and  at  once  went  to  your  uncle's  house  in  Curzon 
Street.  Judge  of  my  absolute  amazement  when  I  was  told  by  the 
grimy  old  caretaker  who  answered  the  bell,  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  de 
Metrier  and  their  son  and  daughter,  accompanied  by  the  Rever- 
end Father  Boyle,  had  sailed  from  Liverpool  for  America  on  the 
Saturday  previous.  I  asked  if  there  were  any  servants  in  the 
house,  and  was  told  that  they  had  all  been  dismissed.  A  sudden 
inspiration  dawned  upon  me,  and  I  bribed  the  old  woman  with 
half  a  crown  to  let  me  go  over  the  house.  It  was  as  I  suspected. 
The  place  was  literally  gutted.  Every  single  plate,  picture,  chair, 
table,  and  cabinet  in  the  house  was  gone,  as  were  all  the  carpets 
and  curtains.  The  plate-closet  and  wine-cellar  were  both  empty! 
I  dashed  off  to  Wade  &  Bonny,  the  family  lawyers,  and  from  them 


326  THE   PERILS   OF   JOSEPHINE 

elicited  the  further  information  that  the  property,  that  for  many 
years  had  been  clear  of  debt,  had  lately  been  mortgaged  abso- 
lutely up  to  the  hilt,  and  that  all  the  horses,  including  the  racing 
stable  at  Newmarket,  had  been  sold  by  auction.  A  great  many 
things  of  value  have  also,  it  appears,  been  brought  up  from  Sel- 
worth  and  sold.  The  whole  thing  has  been  carried  out  with  ex- 
traordinary secrecy  and  quickness,  and  the  loss  on  what  was  sold 
must  be  enormous.  Old  Wade,  whom  I  saw,  confessed  that  he 
thought  the  Squire  had  gone  off  his  head,  and  thought  it  his  duty 
to  write  to  Norman.  But  when  Norman  wrote  back  saying  that 
he  entirely  approved  of  what  his  father  was  doing,  of  course  there 
was  nothing  left  for  him  but  to  carry  out  the  instructions  given 
him.  Old  Wade  estimates  that,  what  with  the  mortgages  and  the 
sales,  your  uncle  must  have  had  at  least  ,£200,000  lodged  to  his 
credit.  This  money  could  of  course  be  attached  if  you  thought 
fit;  but  from  what  I  know  of  you,  you  probably  would  not  care  to 
do  that. 

"When  I  told  old  Wade  of  the  true  state  of  things,  I  thought 
his  chin  would  have  dropped  off,  his  mouth  opened  so  wide.  His 
glasses  dropped  from  his  nose,  and  he  turned  quite  pale. 

"'God  bless  my  soul!"  was  all  he  could  say,  and  this  he  kept 
on  saying  at  intervals  for  ten  minutes. 

"  When  he  had  recovered  his  senses  a  little,  his  professional 
instincts  revived.  He  explained  that  your  uncle's  action  was  a 
plain  admission  of  your  rights,  as  well  as  a  distinct  felony,  so  that 
he  would  hardly  be  likely  to  fight  the  case.  In  fact,  his  going  to 
America  proves  clearly  that  he  acknowledges  defeat.  I  expect 
the  Morrises  having  been  put  back  for  trial  has  had  something  to 
say  to  this  American  trip;  but  it  appears,  from  what  old  Wade 
tells  me,  that  he  has  been  preparing  for  it  for  months  past.  Wade, 
of  course,  was  all  for  pouncing  down  on  the  money  in  the  Bank 
before  it  is  transferred  to  America,  but  I  told  him  I  knew  you 
would  not  wish  this  done.  The  old  brute  asked  if  you  were 
eccentric! 

"So,  dear  little  Dryad,  Selworth  is  yours,  with  all  the  trees 
within  it  for  you  to  gambol  about  in.  Of  course,  the  estate  will  be 
fearfully  crippled  for  many  years  to  come.  Wade  suggests  sell- 
ing the  London  house  at  once.  He  also  suggests  that  you  should 


UNCLE   GUY   MAKES   A   MOVE  327 

live  abroad  for  ten  years  or  so  till  you  are  in  a  position  to  open 
Selworth  again.  How  would  that  suit  you?  Not  over  well,  I  sus- 
pect. However,  these  are  all  things  which  must  be  talked  over. 
I  shall  be  with  you  soon  after  this  reaches  you.  You  might  walk 
down  to  the  little  gate  by  the  fir  wood  to  meet  me — about  one 
o'clock  to-morrow. — Ever  your  loving  SYDNEY. 

"P.  S. — Claud,  it  appears,  is  still  with  his  regiment." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   DEFINITION   OF  A   NAME 

T^HERE  remains  little  more  to  tell.  Once  more,  after 
•*•  many  years  of  pinching,  Selworth  Abbey  has 
opened  its  doors  to  the  world  as  in  the  days  of  yore; 
and  Sydney  and  I  have  emerged  from  the  three  little 
rooms  in  the  west  wing  that  have  hidden  us  all  these 
years.  Uncle  Guy  is  said  to  be  prospering  mightily  in 
New  York  City,  and  Norman  and  Sophie  have  both  mar- 
ried on  to  dollars.  Father  Boyle  became,  for  a  while, 
a  centre  of  political  agitation,  but  is  since  said  to  be  dead. 

At  Selworth  itself  there  is  little  change,  only  the 
changes  of  detail  that  go  on  continuously  from  genera- 
tion to  generation,  and  will  to  the  end  of  the  world — 
changes  born  of  the  superiority  of  youth,  and  the  fidgeti- 
ness of  ownership. 

For  Selworth  is  now  mine  —  glorious,  beloved  Sel- 
worth!— to  do  as  I  will  with.  Only  one  spot  is  there  in 
the  whole  domain  that  is  no  longer  mine. 

For  Inversnaid — the  centre-piece  of  my  life's 
romance — is  mine  no  longer;  it  belongs  now  to  Gran- 
ville,  and  only  by  invitation  am  I  allowed  to  avail  myself 
of  its  shelter.  And  when  that  rare  honour  is  done  me, 
the  proprietor  kindly  provides  a  sheep-hurdle  to  facili- 
tate ascent — my  ascent  only,  not  his;  he  and  Claire  and 
Stephanie  get  up  by  the  drawbridge,  and  would  sooner 
die  than  make  use  of  any  other  means. 

328 


THE   DEFINITION   OF   A   NAME  329 

And  the  great  tree  itself,  alone  of  us  all,  remains 
unchanged  and  unchangeable,  no  larger,  no  smaller,  no 
younger,  no  older,  but  just  the  same — majestic,  silent, 
inscrutable  as  ever.  Sydney  has  three  grey  hairs  behind 
each  ear,  and  I  have  added  an  inch  perhaps  to  my  cir- 
cumference— not  more;  but  in  the  tree  there  is  no 
change.  There  are  still  the  same  hedgehogs  stuck  on 
rolling-pins,  the  ten-acre  field,  the  drawbridge,  the 
moat,  the  secret  chamber,  the  potato  patch,  Arthur's 
seat,  and  Lake  Superior,  and  above  all,  the  fireplace, 
blackened  with  the  ceaseless  fires  of  years.  Only  in  the 
naming  of  the  branches  is  there  any  change.  "My 
branch"  has  been  taken  from  me,  and  annexed  by  Gran- 
ville,  aged  ten.  It  was  voted  "too  difficult  for  mother." 
Shades  of  past  memories!  Too  difficult  for  mother! 
Mother,  who  only  the  day  before  yesterday  sat  wobbling 
astride  the  tipmost  end  of  it,  and  felled  Pete  Morris  with 
the  heel  of  her  shoe!  But  of  course  the  children  know 
nothing  of  this.  And  Norman's  branch  has  become 
Claire's,  and  Claud's  has  become  Stephanie's,  and  I  have 
been  apportioned  the  spare  branch,  the  one  that  for  a 
short  time  had  been  Sophie's,  because,  forsooth,  it  is 
low  and  easy! 

Once  in  a  blue  moon  Sydney  comes  up  with  the  rest 
of  us,  and  then  it  may  be  that  he  makes  the  children 
open  their  round  eyes  very  wide,  for  he  tells  them  that 
he  would  still  back  me,  if  need  be,  to  climb  against  any 
one  of  them  with  one  arm  tied  behind  my  back,  for  that 
I  am,  and  ever  will  be,  the  one  and  only  Hamadryad. 

And  then  they  all  cry  in  chorus:  "But  what  is  a 
hamadryad?" 

And  he  says,  "A  hamadryad  is  a  young  lady  who 
lights  fires  in  trees." 


PRINTED  BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY 
AND  SONS  COMPANY  AT  THE 
LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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